


Ho'omaika'i

by aries_taurus



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: 6x25, Angst, Bromance, Depression, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, Mention of depresssion, Nightmares, Organ Transplantation, Panic Attacks, Reckless Behavior, Talk of Suicide, Whump, mention of PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2018-06-08 13:51:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6857596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aries_taurus/pseuds/aries_taurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s alive, sure, but his life has just taken a drastic left turn and he’s still reeling and nobody realises. People think he’s… How did Grover put it? Indestructible? Well, he isn’t and he now has a pretty big, pretty permanent chink in his armour, and the huge fucking scar to go with it. It’s not that he’s vain but it’s an outward sign of that weakness he’d rather not show.</p><p>Coda to 6.25. What's, in my opinion, going on in Steve's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shock to the system

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, another one. 
> 
> Someone on Tumblr said those two idiots have been cooped up together for a week in a hospital room, both in pain, both not feeling great. No, maybe Steve hasn't said thanks yet, and I got to thinking why?
> 
> So this is what I came up with.
> 
> There's a second chapter in the works, a fix-it for the no cards for Danno bit, which, maybe I can see kinda happening. Steve almost died. Danny... didn't. I'm not saying it's right and that he doesn't deserve tons of kudos and get well soon's and thank yous but... I may be kinda see it happening by accident. Which is why I will also fix it!
> 
> SO this now has a superb extaordinary beta, and is now AU because I could not get it finished before the summer hiatus ended and it has 3 chapters.
> 
> I win endeavour to finish it fast!!!

 

He stops needling Danny after a while, tired beyond measure, hurting more than he’ll ever let on. The pain meds play a part in his constant need to sleep but the major healing his body needs to do is the main reason. He’s still got a week to go before even thinking about being discharged but Danny’s heading home in a couple days.

The thing is, he doesn’t know why he can’t say: _thank you for saving my life, for giving me your liver_. It’s been a week. He figures he’d be able to by now, but… he can’t bring himself to. He knows that yeah, maybe he sounds a bit ungrateful. Only… Danny has no idea what’s going on in his head, and he plans it to stay that way. If that makes him sound like he’s an ingrate, well… The thing is...

He _is_ grateful. He is grateful to be alive, to be here. Instead, he’s being this… sarcastic, cutting, ungrateful asshole to the man who’s saved his life.

Only… Alive, from now on, is a relative term. He is, like Danny once said, on borrowed time. His life will likely be a short one. Doctors told him that liver transplant patient survival after 15 years is only 58% and that 10 to 15% of donated livers fail in the first year.

And… A transplant, like the transplant that saved his life, means the end of his Navy career since it means a medical discharge. He may be a reservist, but the Navy means a hell of a lot to him, still does, always will, and this puts a swift, permanent end to his career.

It means anti-rejection drugs he has to take religiously for the rest of his life, it means the risk or rejection at any time, and it means increased susceptibility to infections for the rest of his life, even more so in the first year post-transplant. It feels like the stupidest thing in the world but he’ll never drink a beer or a glass of wine or a fine whisky in his life ever again. Ever.

He’s alive, sure, but his life has just taken a drastic left turn and he’s still reeling and nobody realises. People think he’s… How did Grover put it? Indestructible? Well, he isn’t and he now has a pretty big, pretty permanent chink in his armour, and the huge fucking scar to go with it. It’s not that he’s vain but it’s an outward sign of that weakness he’d rather not show.

He won’t be in any shape to swim or run for months to come and he made a good show in front of Kono about surfing with Adam in four months but he knows there’s no way that will happen. One day, but it will be closer to six months, maybe even a year.

He’ll never be what he was before, period.

He swallows hard, feeling tears sting at his eyes, suddenly terribly glad Danny drew that damned curtain. He’s not ungrateful. He’s not.

But it’s a damn hard hit to take.

The choked sob that forces up his throat takes him by surprise and he’s glad the curtain is closed. This is why he wanted to sleep. He didn’t want to think about this.

“Hey, you okay?” Danny calls out from his side.

“I’m fine,” he says, but it comes out all wrong, his voice cracking and breaking and, of course, the curtain yanks open.

“Hey, what’s the matter? You in pain?”

He chokes out a laugh. When is he not? He’s been cut open from one side of his lower ribs to the other, up along the right side of them up to his sternum, almost like a sideways cadaver incision, not to mention he took three high-power rifle rounds, had his own liver exploded into bits, had fourteen hours of surgery to fix the damage and had a piece of Danny put in to save his life, ruining a part of it in the process. He knows he should be grateful. He _knows_ he should be. He’s just having a very hard time of it, damn it and why in hell doesn’t anyone realise?

“Steve?”

“You have no idea, do you,” he snaps, despite himself, tears flooding down his face, into his ears and soaking into his pillow.

“What don’t I know?” Danny asks, and Steve can hear him shift, turning towards him.

“How, how, how hard it is to be grateful right now because no matter how glad I am that you saved my life, I’m still gonna lose half of it. That I’m looking at a lifetime of meds, at rejection, at infection, at, at… dying within the next 15 years… at…” He can’t finish, choking on another sob that sparks a shockwave of pain through his barely healed body.

“Hey, hey, babe. Hey. Look at me. Look at me. I’m sorry, okay? I know this is a big deal for you. Yeah, maybe I’d have liked a bit of sympathy for making the grand gesture, for saving your ass, but I get what this means for you. I get it, I do. I really do. I _know_ what it all means, Steve. I gave bone marrow to my son. He has all that same organ donation consequences and limitation things going on and he’s just four years old. So trust me when I say, I know what you mean. I know it’s a shock, babe. But you’re alive to deal with it. You’ll adapt. You’ll deal with it and we’re all here to help you. Okay?”

Steve nods, suddenly feeling very self-conscious, and maybe a little stupid. “Yeah, uh… I’m sorry. I dunno what… I know I sound ungrateful, Danny…”

“Don’t apologise. Like I said, I was just being my whiny ass self. You went through really fucking major trauma. All of you needs to heal. I distinctly remember the transplant team offering counselling for this exact reason and I think you should consider it. I know you went for it after Freddie. Maybe it could help with this too?”

He’s nodding, eyes closed when he hears the squeak of shoes on tile. He opens his eyes to Kaye-Lynn, the evening nurse.

“Evening, Commander, everything all right? Your vitals are a bit elevated…”

“He’s a little upset,” Danny says quietly.

“You’ve had quite an ordeal,” she tells him kindly, rubbing his arm. “Look, I know you’re a tough guy, but my advice? Get it out of your system. Let those emotions out: the fear, the sadness, the loss, the grief, cry it out, scream it out if you need to. It’s like a storm. It needs to break sometimes. Once it’s over, it’s over. You’ll feel maybe a little worn out, you’ll sleep, and then tomorrow, you start with a brand new day. I know a transplant’s a huge change, especially in a case like yours, totally out of the blue, and your life is turned upside down, never to be the same again…”

“Shut up,” he pleads, but she sits on the bed by his side, her kind eyes and understanding smile undoing his defences.

She reaches down and pushes the call button, asking the orderly to come and get Detective Williams for that shower he’s been asking for and he’s even more grateful because that storm Kaye-Lynn was taking about is about to break, whether he wants it to or not.

“Leave me alone,” he says through the tears. She may be right, but he doesn’t need a witness. “Please.”

“I’ll be back later.”

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. He doesn’t know how long he lets the grief and sadness and fear take over, sobbing like a child into the pillow clutched against his chest to brace against the pain. It takes every single ounce of energy he has, drains it out of him like the blood he lost when he got shot a week ago and leaves him washed out, empty and in pain, feeling bruised both in and out.

He’s barely aware of Kaye-Lynn coming in and injecting something in his IV.

The room is bright and filled with sunlight when he wakes up, eyes gummed and head aching from too much sleep.

“Hey, look who’s decided to join us for lunch!”

He blinks and inhales deeply, groaning in pain when the movement pulls at the healing muscles and skin. I feels like ten miles of bad road, like the first day. The day after.

“Hey, you okay? You need the nurse?”

“No. M’ good. Jus… sore. Oh… gh…”

He shifts and grunts, pain awakening everywhere, blazing into hot flames. Clearly, his body wasn’t ready for what he put it through last night. Oh god, he hurts. “Okay… maybe… some pain meds…. D’be good…”

The day nurse, whose name right now escapes him, comes in with a dose of Dilaudid with which he has a love-hate relationship. Dilaudid is the most effective drug to handle the amount of pain that he’s in but it makes him nauseous on a good day and this isn’t a good day by any stretch of the imagination. It also knocks him out into weird, almost hallucinatory dreams.

He spends a couple uncomfortable hours throwing up the meagre amount of bile his new liver is producing until the Phenergan kicks in and then he’s lost in a haze of drugs and misery.

He misses more time after that but when he wakes the second time, he feels much better and much clearer, calmer. Serene.

He turns carefully and finds Danny sitting up, reading a magazine.

“Hey,” he greets, his voice scratchy and broken. He clears his throat and swallows with a wince. He’s really looking forward to a day free of vomiting because his poor abused throat can’t take much more and he’d like to keep his teeth as well.

“Hey. Feeling better?” Danny responds, dropping his copy of _Vogue_ into his lap. Wait. _Vogue_? Steve files that into his mind for later.

“Yeah. Look, Danny, I’m sorry I went off on you. I’m sorry I haven’t thanked you for what you did to save my life. I am grateful for it. I also know that… if you hadn’t stayed calm and landed that plane the way you did, I wouldn’t have made it to the hospital. I’d have bled out if that whole thing had taken another fifteen minutes more and I’d have drowned if you’d ditched the plane like ATC wanted you to. So that’s three times I owe you my life. So, here it is. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Steven. Now, can I ask a favour?”

“What,” he says, immediately suspicious.

“Never, ever tell Kamekona the next time you get shot you’ll make sure it’s in a vital organ, okay?”

“Seriously? Seriously? You’re going to hold that against me? Like I chose where those bullets went, Danny! I did not choose to get hit in a vital organ because I told Kamekona I would!”

“You would if you got free food out of it!”

“And we’re back with that again!” he says, throwing up his hands as much as he dares. He listens to Danny rant at him, a smile crooking his lips, seeing it mirrored on Danny’s face and he knows they’re all right.

They’ve said what they needed to say. Besides, they’ve never really needed the right words to know what the other feels. Actions always speak louder between them. It’s like he told Danny a few weeks back. He’s always had Danny’s back, and Danny’s always got his.

TBC…


	2. Maternal Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had to come. She had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, officially AU, now that the premiere aired. No spoilers for that, so you're good if you haven't seen it.

 

The moment that Danny’s discharged is the moment Steve gets on the phone. His first call is to the Governor. Denning takes his call right away. After discussing his recovery and upcoming lengthy absence, Steve moves on to the reason he called in the first place.

The man listens patiently and, thankfully, is enchanted by his idea.

“Of course, I’ll make it happen, Commander.”

“I know we’re outside the normal nomination window but--”

“Don’t worry. The attorney general is a personal friend. Like I said: I’ll make it happen.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Rest up, Steve. Five-0 will be waiting when you’re ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hangs up and stares at the phone for long minutes, tears pooled in his eyes. The show of support is overwhelming and daunting all at once. He has no idea if he’ll ever be able to handle more than a desk job once he’s healed, and he doesn’t know how well that will sit if that’s the case. It _will_ have to suffice if that’s all he can do but right now, the very idea is almost unbearable, but at least he has a place to go back to.

It’s not about the money. His Navy pension and his disability pension from the State (if it comes to that) would be enough to live by but… He’s not yet forty years old and despite a shorter lifespan to expect, he has a life and he wants to live it, and he wants to live it fully. Being an invalid is… not something he wants to have to contemplate.

He knows he’s being a bit melodramatic. His doctor thinks that depression is to be expected in his case, that it isn’t surprising he’s having trouble coping, trouble accepting Danny’s incredible gift. That’s why he told Danny he didn’t _have_ to give him his liver. Not that Steve had particularly wanted to die but... It’s still a huge fucking thing Danny did.

Yes, Steve would have done the same, of course he would have but he doesn’t have any kids. Why the hell did Danny risk killing himself _twice_ to save him? That is the thing he can’t figure out. That’s why he wants to grab Danny by the neck and shake him and ask: why the hell did you do this? I’m not worth the risk, I have no one, I’m not worth it, you have kids, why the hell would you risk yourself for me like this?

He blows out a long breath, grimacing when the small movement pulls on his incisions, his arm and thigh aching in time with his chest and abdomen.

He’s been badly hurt before but he has to admit, taking three high-caliber rounds hurts like hell. Fourteen hours of surgery, a new liver, _Danny’s liver_ … hurts like hell, and he knows he’s alive simply because those rounds went through the plane’s fuselage before hitting his body and especially because of Danny’s… he doesn’t even know how to call what Danny did. Heroics seems too weak a word.

Still, his own life has been irrevocably changed.

He closes his eyes, swallows hard, pushing away tears again. This depression thing the docs mentioned is starting to feel more real and he shakes his head. One more hurdle coming up in his path, one more thing to overcome.

He drifts, between asleep and awake, yet he can’t seem to drop off into slumber, despite how tired he is, and he is tired. The past six years have been nothing but challenges and hurdles, hurts and disappointments, betrayals and abandonments, now  crowned by the hardest trial of his life. _The only easy day was yesterday_ sounds like the cruelest of jokes right now.

He’s so tired of fighting, of being brave, of being strong… He doesn’t feel indestructible. Yet, when he sees his friends’ faces, their smiles, their enthusiasm, he can’t help but smile too, can’t help but be hopeful too. However, when the darkness of night comes… he isn’t so sure anymore.

The thing is, he wants to fight, wants to heal, wants to get back to where he was. The alternative is… unthinkable.

And then, there’s Danny. It all circles back to Danny.

Danny and his incredible sacrifice, his insanely brave and selfless and heroic and… there are not enough words to describe what Danny did to save his life, and for the life of him, Steve can’t figure out _why he did it_. Why he risked not being with his kids, why he risked so much for a man that has nothing, _nothing_ waiting for him. It’s driving him _nuts_.

Steve knows he’d be missed if he died. Of course, he would be. He has friends, a family. He knows that, but he’s not essential to anyone the way Danny is to his children, his parents, everyone around him. Danny is the opposite to him because Steve knows he isn’t essential. He’s useful, maybe even needed, but not essential. Nahele’s face surfaces in his mind, a tiny part of him yelling at him that he’s wrong but it’s such a thin voice in the storm of his emotions that it’s all but drowned out.

He said thank you. He did, and he really and truly meant it.

He still doesn’t understand, doesn’t get it -- his thoughts going in circles, over and over again. He just doesn’t understand.

Maybe he never will? Maybe it doesn’t matter.

He growls out in frustration and heaves out another sigh, biting out a grunt of pain at the action. He willingly shoves all the negative thoughts out of his head. Yeah, okay. He almost died. His Navy career did die on that plane. Danny made an incredible sacrifice he has trouble understanding to save his life. But the point is, he _is_ alive and in time, he’ll be fine. Yes, he has a fuckton of healing to do first. Yes, he’ll need meds for the rest of his life, he may have a shorter life expectancy but then he may not. The docs said he’s lucky; he was perfectly healthy before getting shot so it gives him a much better chance -- so he should remain positive. He does wonder if Danny’s attitude did come with the liver but that’s him being an asshole and not facing up to his own feelings about coming face-to-face with his mortality and the consequences of yes, a possibly stupid plan, a life-changing injury and an act of selflessness he has trouble understanding. Only that’s not what he told Danny and that’s part of what he needs to remedy.

Unfortunately, that will need to wait until he’s healed enough to get out of here and for the Governor to set his plan into motion. Until then, he’s stuck here with his own thoughts.

He may go back to Five-0 or he may not, but He. Is. Alive. His story doesn’t end yet. He’ll figure out the rest in time.

He’s always rolled with the punches and okay, maybe this one threw him for a bigger loop than most. So what? He’ll bounce back. He’ll figure it out.

Besides, he’s already got the first step of his plan in motion.

He shakes his head slowly, trying to get the mess of his thoughts in order once again.

He may not understand what Danny did but he’ll make damned sure Danny gets the recognition he deserves for it.

The hallway lights dim for the night and he lets out a slow, measured breath that, for once, doesn’t cause a flare of pain. He’s managed to find a semblance of calm again and he drifts off into sleep, a little tiny bit more at peace with his new reality.

\--

It’s easy to slip onto the ward undetected, especially in the middle of the graveyard shift. She didn’t even need to find scrubs or a stethoscope. The first thing to know about succeeding in undercover work is knowing how to look like you belong: look confident; look like you belong there; look like you know where you’re going and that you belong there and no one will question your presence or even look at you twice. Two a.m. is “lunch time” for the nightshift, so half the nurses are off on break so it’s easier still to distract the single duty nurse so she can slip by the ward station and sneak into the hallway leading to her son’s room. She only had to slip into a CCU room down the hall and unplug a monitor.

The door to room 1507 is open, as is every room on the floor. There’s no guard at the door. There’s no need. He isn’t in danger here.

He’s asleep. _Her son. Her child._ His face is hidden in shadows but he seems to be resting peacefully. He doesn’t seem to be in pain.

Her hand rises for a moment, the gesture born out of a mother’s need to touch and soothe, but she stills, curls her fingers into a fist and drops her arm. She stays where she is, in the hall, by the door, and she watches him sleep, watches her son as he rests and heals.

She doesn’t really deserve to be here. She shouldn’t be here. It’s too much of a risk.

She… isn’t really a mother to him anymore, she supposes. He was right when he said she stopped being one the day she faked her death.

She never did learn how to turn off her mother’s heart.

It’s why she couldn’t abandon Wo Fat. It’s why she did abandon him and Mary and John.

Yes, she has a heart but she was never very good at using it right.

Still, when Joe called and told her Steve had been badly injured, almost killed… had survived only because _Danno_ had given him part of his liver, after an emergency landing on Waikiki Beach… she couldn’t stay away.

She couldn’t _not_ see him one more time.

She’s made such a _mess_ of things. Everything she’s ever tried to do, to set the wrongs she’s done _right_ has failed. So, she keeps doing the only thing she knows how to do right -- she runs. Over and over again.

And yet, she’s here, now, but under the cover of night, while he sleeps, when he’ll never know she was there. The thing is, she doesn’t know if him knowing she was even there would hurt him or help him. God knows, he doesn’t need more hurt and she doesn’t know if she even has a clue _how_ to help. If there are any words she can say now that will soothe his bruised heart and soul.

Maybe he’s right? Maybe she _is_ selfish and self-serving? Yes, Joe did tell her that he said those things about her. Joe has always been brutally honest with her about everything.

She sighs. It’s time to go.

She wipes a tear from her face as she turns only to stare down the barrel of a gun. She startles but she stays quiet and freezes, her eyes seeking out the face beyond the muzzle of the pistol held inches from her face.

“Chin Ho Kelly,” she breathes, relieved. Easy. She’s played him before. He’s no threat. The anger she sees on his face doesn’t faze her at all.

“Hands on your head. Now.”

“Come on, Chin Ho, You--”

“Doris Anne McGarrett, you’re under arrest for aiding and abetting a fugitive, for murder in the second degree, as well as attempted murder, weapons trafficking and a whole _host_ of other offenses.”

She scoffs. “I did nothi-”

“Every single person Wo Fat murdered after you helped him escape is on your head,” he hisses viciously. “Every crime he committed. Crimes like accessory to commit murder, murder in the second degree, like attempted murder and felony assault and battery using a deadly weapon on _your own son_. On Steve. That’s on you. You ever think about that? You ever think about what he’d do to Steve when you let him go, not once but twice? You didn’t bother to show up when he almost killed Steve last year, when Steve had to kill him in self-defence, when it was so close he had a bullet from Wo Fat’s gun graze his _skull_. What the hell do you think you’re doing here? Did you think we’d let you near him when you’re as guilty as Wo Fat of causing him harm?”

Her mouth gapes open as she searches for words that she can’t find. She stands, frozen, as a dark figure moves by her right side. Slender, feminine hands grasp her wrists and she doesn’t fight back when metal closes around them. She looks over her shoulder as they shove her down the corridor, sees her son’s shape disappear around a corner, as tears of shame and anger flow down her face.

How could she not see this coming? How did she not anticipate _them_ , this ‘Ohana he’s built, how fiercely protective they are… That’s a miscalculation on her part but she still can get away. Their accusations, however, sting deep. How could she not _think_ about this? About what protecting one son meant for the other and _vice versa_? In the end, she’d protected neither of them and she’d lost herself too.

She still has enough contacts to get out of wherever they’re going to put her. It means burning the very last bridge to her family but then, deep down, she already knew this, already had figured it, coming here, that this meant saying a last goodbye.

Maybe it’s for the best after all.

\----

Something drags at the edges of Steve’s mind, dragging him from sleep. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle with unease. The sensation sends him straight into full alertness and he sits up, instantly hissing in pain , the incisions on his chest protesting the sudden movement.

There are muted voices just outside his room, which in itself isn’t unusual but it’s not the nurses’ hushed tones. He picks up Chin’s and Kono’s and… No. It can’t be.

There’s a metallic chink of handcuffs being closed, followed by a shuffle of movement and a long silence.

Footsteps stop close to his door.

“Chin?”

“I’m sorry we woke you.”

“Did I hear right?” It comes out brittle. Broken.

“Steve.”

“Why did she show up? Why now? Why did she have to show up?” A tear rolls down his face and he wipes it angrily off his cheek. He’s fucking sick of crying, of feeling this emotional, out of control.

“You know that’s a question I can’t answer,” Chin says softly, sitting on the chair by the bed.

“You arrested her. She’s just going to disappear again.”

“You know there were warrants for her arrest after she let Wo Fat escape. We had to. And no, she won’t. Not this time. You made sure if she ever did show up. She wouldn’t disappear again.”

Steve gives a humourless bark of a chuckle. “You really think the CIA will hold up its word? I may have cleaned up the Sandpiper mess for them but I don’t think I’ve build up enough capital for them to give up Doris. Family drama is pretty low on the list of things they give a damn about. Don’t forget, they would gladly have let me be collateral damage when I arrested Wo Fat in Osaka and brought him here.”

“Maybe but one arms dealer is very much different than 3 billion dollars’ worth of cocaine. Either way, the local CIA station chief is waiting for us and we made a deal. We’re not letting her out of our sight; not until you’ve had a chance to speak with her. She’s being taken to the federal detention center’s maximum security wing for debriefing. After that, he can do as he pleases with her. That’s the deal we made and he knows Five-0 will hold up its end.”

“I want to see her.”

“As soon as they let you out of here--”

“No. She’ll be gone by then,” he says, pushing himself off the bed and sitting up with a grunt of pain. “Help me up. I need to go to... Agh … Chin, come on, help me,” he asks again through clenched teeth.

“Steve, be reasonable. You can’t walk yet. It’s too soon.”

He shakes his head, pushing to his feet despite the graying edges in his field of vision. It hurts, but he has to get to the Federal detention center, has to get to Doris before she slips away again. “Chin, I’m not letting her get away from me again! You don’t understand! I have to…” he trails off as the gray fills his vision and turns into blackness.

He sags towards to floor but Chin’s arms are suddenly around him, holding him up. He isn’t going down but the strain it puts on his healing incisions sparks a shockwave of pain that steals whatever air he had left in his lungs.  He feels movement, the mattress against his back, hears the wail of a monitor, rushed feet and the blackness clears but the pain makes it impossible to breathe. Heat floods up his arm and burns up his carotids; Dilaudid.

He blinks at the nurse by his side, swallows heavily as he’s hit by a rush of nausea as his blood pressure swings wildly. He groans, dizzy, as they drop the head of the bed and raise his feet. An oxygen mask appears and he feels something cold race up the vein in his arm.

He knows it’s an anti-emetic: Zofran probably, as good as any sedative. No. He can’t lose this. This is his last chance…

“No… Chin… I… I Can’t…” he whispers, words lost in the mask pressed on his face.

“We’ll find a way. I promise. We’ll… I’ll find a way.”

 

\---

Doris has clearly underestimated this whole game, she finally understands, after her son’s cohorts are done putting her through a search any CIA black site operative would be proud of. They find every single thing she had hidden on her person and they lock her in a seamless Plexiglas cage. She’s been told by a man in a suit (he’s a CIA plant, she’s sure) that she’s been disavowed and hung out to dry and that no, she’s not getting a phone call, or a transfer, or an attorney or anything at all. She leaked info on _Sandpiper_ , on countless other ops, the entire Shelburne mess, and on top of it, she broke cover to see her son. The man concludes by telling her she’s emotional, unreliable at worst and a traitor at best.

Finally she sits in one of the chairs bolted to the floor, legs rubbery and mind in disarray. She doesn’t know what to do. Hours pass, and nothing changes.

She’s done, thrown away. It has all finally caught up to her and when she finds a way to disappear again, she’ll never be back. This time, it’s for keeps, for good and forever.

She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d gotten to her son’s hospital room.

She certainly hadn’t expected this: she hadn’t expected to be hung out to dry so drastically, she hadn’t expected Joe not to warn her and she hadn’t expected her own son to put out warrants for her arrest.  In retrospect, she should have known he would turn out to be just like his father;  a man with an unwavering sense of justice. She’s been out-maneuvered by a bunch of well-meaning goodie-two-shoes with no sense of the real world and that makes her angrier than anything else. Arresting her just puts the world in more danger. Don’t they get that? Why doesn’t Steve get that? Why doesn’t her son understand that what she does has value? That the world needed and still needs people like her and that his slightly messed up childhood was a very small price to pay for a safer world? Why can’t he see this?  Steve is a smart man and yet he doesn’t understand the sacrifice she  had to make for him is for the greater good. She isn’t selfish. She has done what’s needed, that’s all.  Now, she is in this _mess_ because no one else understands the concept of sacrifice! She has no idea where to even begin to plan a way out of this because he’s cut off all of her contacts and exit routes. She doesn’t expect anyone to be on her side -- not this time.

She doesn’t expect anyone to visit her.

Especially not him.

Still, when morning comes, he’s there. Steve is here, on the other side of the Plexiglas, staring at her with hard, cold eyes.

His face is pale and lined with pain and there are three different IV bags hanging from a pole attached to the wheelchair he’s sitting in. She can see a form retreating towards the hallway but she doesn’t care who brought him. She only cares that he’s here and alive and…  She can’t hold back a choked sob. He looks so…

“Save the dramatics, Doris,” he says coldly.

“Stevie…”

“It’s Steve. I’m not five years old, Doris.”

“How are you doing, sweetie? Are you doing okay? Are you in pain?”

His face softens for a fraction of a second before the stony mask falls back into place. “Don’t. Don’t try and pretend like you care. It’s not the first time I’ve been shot.”

“I--”

“Let me guess, it’s the first time you’ve been close enough to actually show up. No, let me rephrase that,” he says, nostrils flaring, “it’s the first time it’s convenient for you to come to your injured son’s bedside without damaging your precious mission, or your cover.”

“Steve, please… look-”

“No. NO! You don’t get to come back here and play doting mother when you raised that bastard who tried to kill me time and time again, who killed Dad, who tried to kill Mary, had her kidnapped and beaten, the man who tortured me just so he could get to you and when he does, what do you do? Knowing what he did, you let him go, so he can do it over and over again!”

“You don’t understand!” she wails, tears flooding her eyes.

“Then make me! And what don’t I understand, exactly, huh? You wanna know what I don’t understand?  I don’t understand you not telling me one single iota of truth, ever, in my entire life! I don’t understand you choosing a psychopath over your own flesh and blood, over, over, over what, over some guilt complex? Over a failed assassination attempt, just because you got attached to your mark! You chose to protect Wo Fat over me, over _us_! You _let_ him murder my father. You _let him_ escape. You let him torture me. You chose him over me. You’re right! I don’t understand! What did Wo Fat ever do to earn your love that Mary and I didn’t?”

“It’s not about that!”

“Then what is it about! Tell me!” he shouts, spittle flying out of his mouth, anguish and pain lighting his eyes.

She doesn’t know why she ever came back. She has never wanted to see such pain in her son’s eyes, pain she knows she’s mostly responsible for.

“I couldn’t ask you not to kill him because I knew what he would do to you but I couldn’t do it myself and I couldn’t ask you to kill him either! I love… loved you both. You’re… were both my sons! I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t… strong enough. I wasn’t… good enough… I’m sorry! I’m sorry for all of the pain I’ve caused you, and Mary and all the pain I caused him too, because all of this... _mess_ is my fault! All I ever do to the people I love is get them hurt or get them killed! That’s why I left! To protect all of you. It’s the only thing I’m good at, the only thing I can do to keep you safe!” She knows her words are not making sense but she’s sure he understands. He has to. He has to understand!

“And look how well that worked for every single one of us! Including Wo Fat, that you loved like your own son according to him!” he snarls. “So you chose the easy wrong instead of the hard right. You abandoned us. When Wo Fat found you, you let him escape, helped him, even. So you wouldn’t hurt him, and asked him not to hurt me, hoping he’d listen, instead of letting him rot in prison where he belongs, where he’d be alive and I’d’ve been safe. Or… God… Or letting him be killed so I could live, so I could be safe! No, instead, you chose to have one _son_ ,” he spits out the word like a bad taste in his mouth “have to kill the other. How is that better, Doris? Tell me how that was a good choice? You _made me do this_. _YOU_ forced my hand. You’re the one who made me hurt someone you care about. You ever think how that makes me feel? Wo Fat didn’t care because he was a psychopath. I’m not. I had to kill a man that was like a son to you, or so he said, but I have to give it some weight because of your actions. You ever think what that feels like?” He grunts in pain, folding in on himself, his left hand clutching at his chest.

“Steve!”

“I’m fine!” he snaps through gritted teeth. His posture and paling complexion say otherwise. He’s clearly in a tremendous amount of pain.

She splays both hands on the glass, aching to touch him, to for once, make all of the pain she’s caused him go away.

“I’m sorry. Steve, I’m so sorry,” she whispers as her knees weaken until she’s in a heap against the glass. All she can hear are his hissed, pained breaths and she knows he’s crying too, recognizes the sound from that first night, the one she “died.” She’d spent it flattened against the wall of the house, silently crying with her family, selfish in her own grief, but she somehow never forgotten the sound of her son’s quiet tears.

She looks up only to see the wheelchair’s been turned around and is being pushed out. She can no longer see him.

She knows she never will again. She doesn’t call out, doesn’t even whisper his name.

All she’s left with is her own quiet grief.

\---

Chin stops right outside the viewing area, locks the wheels and goes to one knee by Steve’s side, a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t need to ask to know the man beside him isn’t doing well. Steve’s pale, drenched in sweat and breathing in tight, painful huffs, face hidden behind his good hand but it does nothing to hide the tears.

“Hey. It’s over. You need to lie down. There’s a gurney right down the corridor. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

The acquiescence is brittle and wet and he wonders, possibly for the thousandth time, if this was really a good idea. It’s only been ten days. Steve is not even close to being healed. It took an ambulance to get him here, and his doctors agreed only because Steve’s mental well-being demanded closure. The man’s been depressed, sullen and quiet since getting shot and finding out his mother had been arrested outside his hospital room hadn’t helped matters.

So Cornett had agreed and even tagged along. Chin wastes no time in flagging the doctor and smiles when he sees him pushing the gurney down the hallway.

They waste no time getting Steve horizontal and dosed with Dilaudid but they delay the return trip to Tripler, letting the injured man sleep off the emotional encounter. He needs rest, the doc says, not a bumpy ambulance ride.

“So,” Cornett says quietly, after checking his patient’s vitals, “you think this’ll help?”

Chin nods. He knows Cornett’s treated Steve before, knows he was the doctor in charge of Steve’s care last year when he finally put a bullet in Wo Fat’s head. Chin has no qualms about speaking his mind nor any fear of breaking Steve’s confidence. Cornett already knows what the piece of trash put Steve through.

“It’ll give him the closure he’s needed for years and he can focus fully on his recovery. It might bring back the cheerful man I knew a couple years ago. He says he’s okay but… I don’t think he recovered as well as he says from the last couple encounters with Wo Fat…”

“Hmmm.”

They spend a few minutes in quiet contemplation until the man on the gurney behind them stirs, groaning. The groan turns into a cough and into a strangled choking gag.

“I think that’s my cue for the Phenergan.”

“Hate… fucking Dilaudid,” Steve mumbles and Chin pats his calf.

“Nah, brah. You just got a no good stomach.”

“Fuck you, Chin Ho Kelly,” Steve responds thickly, but smiles nonetheless.

Drugs take the filter off Steve’s sailor mouth and it surprises Chin every time.

Cornett administers the anti-emetic and after a few minutes, Steve relaxes into a drugged doze and they load him back into the ambulance, making their way back to Tripler.

Cornett assures him that Steve will sleep for most of the day, giving him an opportunity to check on Danny.

\---

Chin waits until they’re finished sharing a cup of coffee, both comfortably seated on Danny’s living room sofa before he tells Danny about Doris.

“Wow. That, I did not expect,” Danny says from his place on the couch. “How did Steve take it?”

“How do you think? He convinced Cornett to let him visit her at the holding facility.”

“WHAT!” Danny jerks up and winces as the exclamation pulls at his healing incisions. He flops back to the sofa, panting, eyes screwed shut in pain. When it abates he opens them and stares at Chin with an incredulous gaze. "Visit Doris?”

“Yeah. And I agreed.” He holds up a hand, hopefully holding back Danny’s tirade. “Come on, Danny. Don’t tell me having it out with Doris is not a good thing for his mental state, and getting it out of his mind as quickly as possible was the best option.”

“Wait, was?”

“Yeah. We went this morning.”

“WENT? This mor- This morning? Are you nuts? He can’t even walk yet!” Danny splutters, a hand pressing on his still-healing incision but keeping still this time.

Chin doesn’t comment on Danny’s pain, knows better. It’s easier to just let him vent.

“Which is why he went by ambulance, with me and Doctor Cornett along for the ride. He didn’t even try to stand,” he says calmly. “He’s not stupid, and neither am I, Danny.”

Danny snorts, but gives him a half-apologetic eyebrow rise. “Idiot. How’d it go?”

“Pretty much as you’d expect. He said his piece. She didn’t deny anything. She apologized. Oh, and uh, CIA disavowed Doris.”

Danny nots silently. “And how’s Steve?”

Chin shook his head. “Hard to tell. Wiped out, for sure. I just hope… I hope it gives us Steve back, you know, the guy that was there after Malia died, the one that’s happy. Smiling. Not this… Ghost we’ve been seeing for the past year.”

“Yeah. The guy that was there when Matty died. Not the guy we’ve had since he killed Wo Fat.”

“Yeah, that guy.”

“So it isn’t just me he’s been abrasive with?”

“No brah.  Since Wo Fat and Catherine leaving…”

“He hasn’t been the same. I mean, he always gives me shit about my attitude but…”

“I know.”

They both fall silent for a bit, neither of them wanting to voice their concern about their friend but Chin should know better than to expect Danny Williams to stay silent for long.

“I don’t expect him to fall on his knees in thanks for what I did. I just… A thank you would have been welcome and then, last week, after you guys left for Max’s going away party… He just… he started taking pot shots at me like he does and then… he… He completely lost it for a bit. I mean, the guy’s a rock, as emotional as a damned piece of concrete and yeah, sometimes he gets this… teary-eyed look but…. He broke down, Chin, sobbing like some lost little kid and… and, he thanks me and it’s like he was back but there’s this shadow in his eyes and I just don’t know how he’ll get through his after all the shit he’s already had piled on him. Fine, call me a pathetic pessimist but I’m terrified for my friend here! I gave the guy half my liver so he could live but it’s like he’s already walking back towards the grave!”

“Danny,” Chin says calmly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Steve isn’t giving up. But you and I know that you have to hit that bottom before you swim back up and maybe this is his bottom. Maybe he hasn’t realized he’s sinking and this will force him to heal, not just his body but his soul too. And don’t forget… All of us walk side by side with death. You and I…we know it like our shadow. He knows it like his enemy.”

Danny draws in a deep breath and sits up to lean against the back of his sofa, gaze lost into space. “Yeah. Maybe. Still. You didn’t see him bleeding out on that plane. You didn’t hear him say he was gonna die. He knew it, Chin. He knew. Knew how bad it was.”

“No. I didn’t hear,” Chin replies. He can only imagine what it was like, hearing Steve, ever the optimist, utter those words. He could picture how seeing the blood pouring out of their friend’s body would make him feel. He’d seen the stain on the plane’s floor, on the seat, but he knows it’s quite another thing to see the blood flowing out of a loved one’s body, hot and messy over your hands… Unbidden, an image of Malia, broken and bleeding on the floor in front of him springs to mind but he pushes it away. Steve survived. He was lucky. No he was blessed, because he had Danny there to save him -- brave Danny to take him to help in time, to give him part of himself to make sure he did live.

“He’ll be okay, brah. You made sure of it, Okay? He knows what you did to save him. We all do.”

Danny heaves a deep sigh before he answers. “Yeah, yeah.”


	3. On his feet again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets released and goes back to work -- but it doesn't mean he's okay. But he's fine. He's _fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has been a while coming and I appologize. I will get chapter 4 up soon and the fix-it Danny deserves is still coming but I might not get it up before season 7 ends!
> 
> Many Many MANY thanks to my tireless Beta, the ever patient Sealie. Without her, this would be a mess.

* * *

 

Part I - Static Electricity

Steve wakes slowly, his head aching and the incisions on his chest pulling. He’s generally sore and just plain worn.  The light in the room tells him it’s probably early afternoon so he’s slept through lunch again. It’s not that he’s hungry, rather the opposite; Dilaudid be damned.

He stretches as much as he dares and rolls his neck, opening his eyes to slits.

“Hey.”

“Danny,” he greets, a bit startled and instantly concerned. He scans Danny’s face for any signs of yellowed skin, or unusual paleness, signs of pain, any signs that something’s wrong “Whatcha doing here, y’all right?”

“I’m fine. Had a blood test, my new routine for the next few months as you should know. Came for a visit. Speaking of visits, I heard about your visitor last night,” Danny says carefully.

He sighs. “Doris.”

“Yeah, Doris. You okay?” he asks blandly.

“I’m fine, Danny.”

Danny tosses his head and lets out a gusting huff of breath at Steve’s bitten off, closed off tone. Of course he isn’t fine, and this isn’t going to fly, not after that discussion they had a few days ago.

“Don’t give me that crap. I just gave you half my freakin liver so you could live. Don’t lie to me.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say because Steve’s expression turns dark and as close to murderous as Danny has ever seen it.

“What do you want me to say, Danny, huh?” he snaps. “That I’m hurting? That I’m pissed? That this whole situation sucks? You know all that so why the hell do you need me to say it? You like seeing me in pieces? Huh? Is that it? Is that why you gave me your fucking liver Danny? So you can hold it over my head like some damned sword and, and—“

Danny has to lift his hands up and calm him down because the heart monitor is going nuts and there’s already a nurse at the door. He shakes his head slowly and he lifts his palms higher, above his head, a clear surrender, but he has to raise his voice too, because Steve is now full out shouting at him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, buddy, okay -- chill. I didn’t mean it like that, okay? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just… okay, I said the wrong thing. I apologize. My mouth, it gets away with me, you know this, especially when I’m scared and worried and I’m sorry. Okay, don’t get upset.”

Steve listens, shuts up, breathing hard, and nostrils flaring with each forceful, raging inhale. His eyes are locked on Danny’s and he can’t quite decipher the look in them. It’s anger and fear and hurt and something else he can’t put his finger on but it still looks like that thing a few days ago when his partner lost it. Maybe now’s not the time to push but he hates seeing him in pain and Danny knows he’s suffering and here he goes again being a mother hen. He draws in a breath and lowers his hands, turning his palms up.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m concerned, babe. You got shot, almost died. No, no, let me finish,” he says when Steve opens his mouth. “You scared me, so I’m still a little overprotective and then, then,” he says, drawing the word out, “Doris shows up, so yeah, I had to ask. You’re fine, end of discussion. Okay, right. So, when are you getting out of here?”

Steve blows out the breath he’d been holding to launch a tirade with and lets the anger deflate. He takes the apology for the change of direction it is and changes the subject. Crisis averted, not forgotten, just filed away for another time. It just stews in the back of Danny’s mind, brewing and festering until the next opportunity arises.

 

* * *

 

Part II – Fight or flight

 

It takes another week before Steve gets released. Unfortunately, it’s a week inside of which they resume their bitching and angry sniping. Of course, Steve’s release becomes a reflection of that tension and they end up getting in an overly aggressive wheelchair race. Because life can’t give them a break, a serial killer dumps bodies at their doorstep  in the very next minute. As a result, Steve gets even more insane, jumping off roofs and tearing his stitches. Maybe he’s just trying to please the new Governor but it might just end up putting him back in the hospital or straight into the grave he barely avoided.

Danny can’t quite believe it but he can’t really say anything meaningful or get where he wants to go with any conversation he starts. Every time he tries, he and Steve just end up in a fight more vicious than the last attempt at conversation. For some reason, Steve can’t seem to understand where Danny’s coming from, see or even possibly conceive how scared he was at having to see his best friend almost bleed out and die.

Steve just doesn’t get how it still terrifies Danny to see him almost hell-bent on going right back to trying to kill himself on the job. Not that he’s willingly doing it or so Steve says, not that it makes Danny feel any better.

He’s glad the guy takes a few days off but of course that goes to hell too when the nut job they’re trying to catch breaks into Steve’s house and leaves him a present, like a cat leaves a dead mouse on your doorstep.

Maybe Danny should be glad it takes a couple more weeks for another even crazier case to show up but how can he be grateful when it means having to hop on a friggin’ airplane not even a month after almost getting killed on one?

He’s not happy about it for sure and one look at Steve makes it obvious his partner’s on the verge of a panic attack, not that Super Seal will ever admit to it. Of course, they have double O-something present to witness it all, so he has to come up with something glib and bitchy to say because all he can do right now is take Steve’s mind off getting shot to pieces and almost getting killed the last time he got on a plane, crashing said plane…

Thankfully, riling Steve up is painfully easy these days. Of course, he can’t help but ask if the guy’s all right but that’s just who he is.

Nothing goes smoothly and that’s fucking par for the course isn’t it? Oh, the places he’s been since Steve shanghaied him into Five-0! This one will need to go into his memoirs. The one positive point to the whole mess is Steve grinning like an idiot because he finally got Danny involved in a true Navy SEAL-worthy raid, because that too is par for the course now. Seriously? Fuck his life.

 

Okay, it is pretty damned cool.

He’s taller than the Queen of England. Who knew?

No, really, the icing on the cake is the fish and chips, and Steve actually sleeping on the plane from London to LAX. It’s a good enough sign for him to relax, enough so that once they reach cruising altitude outbound to HNL, he falls asleep too.

His last thought as he falls asleep is: maybe they can get through this after all.

//--//--//

Steve startles awake, tense and shaking, right hand clutching at his chest, phantom pain slicing through it like those bullets did a few weeks ago but to his surprise, his hand comes away dry. There’s no blood. For a dizzyingly confusing moment, it doesn’t make sense.

He blinks and the plane’s cabin comes into focus. There’s no yolk between his knees, no pedals at his feet, only a seat back and a tray table in front of him. He’s on an Airbus A-320, not a Cessna. He hasn’t been shot. He isn’t bleeding out and dying in an equally dying plane over the Pacific. He’s just flying home from London with Danny asleep on his shoulder.

His heart is still pounding in his chest, unconvinced of his current reality. Its beat is erratic and wildly fast but it’s not because of blood loss. Not this time.

He rubs a hand over his face, trying to get himself under control but the motion dislodges Danny, who grumbles himself awake.

“We there yet?” he mumbles.

“No. Go back to sleep,” he answers, his voice tight and strained. He unclips his seat belt and stands in the cramped space, eyes frantically scanning up and down the aisle. He needs some space. He needs to breathe. He has to… move. He feels the panic crawling up his spine like hundreds of spiders.

“Where you goin’ then?”

“I gotta piss,” he lies, heading for the forward lavatories, steps as long as the restricted space allows.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he hears Danny call out behind him. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t answer. He can’t -- his throat is too tight, the nightmare still too real. He would swear his chest is covered in blood and the new scar on his side feels like a gaping, ragged hole instead of a still healing patch of skin. The matching bullet scars on his arm and thigh ache in tandem with the frantic beat of his heart.

He’s lucky. One of the lavatories is free.

He charges in, locks the door and leans over the minuscule sink, breathing way too fast, eyes tightly shut. He wills himself to think about the sun setting over the waves as they roll onto the beach behind his house but all he can see is Waikiki Beach through the cockpit of that damned Cessna. That’s not possible. It can’t be; he was unconscious, bleeding out, closer to dead than alive at the time. He does remember one thing: Danny’s voice, distant but forceful, frantic and full of fear.

_“Hey Steve, listen to me. I know you’ve never been any good at listening to me but right now you got no choice, you stubborn son of a bitch: do not die! HEY Listen to me! Do not die! I’m not landing this thing for you to die on me, you understand? Huh? Good.”_

His own remembered fear spikes, his heart rate surging with it. Acid churns in his stomach and for a terrifying instant, he’s sure he’s about to be sick. He swallows heavily, drawing in a slow, even breath and the sudden nausea ebbs. He bites his lip and makes himself draw in a second long, steady inhale, holds it for four solid seconds, exhales for four more and repeats the process until his racing heart slows and the panic in his mind subsides. The dream-memory slowly releases its hold on him like the tide ebbing out.

This has got to _stop_.

He can’t keep doing this, freaking out at every little reminder of the shooting and ensuing crash.

He splashes some water on his face, takes a piss and washes his hands before making his way back to his seat, hoping Danny will have fallen back asleep.

He isn’t that lucky, not that he really expected his partner to not have noticed his quick escape. Danny knows him too well. He’s too good an observer, too good a detective. Danny’s a good friend, too, if he’s honest. Somehow, today, it rubs him wrong, annoys him that Danny knows him well enough to figure out he isn’t all right, even before he speaks. He just knows he’s going to get interrogated.

As expected, Danny’s wide awake and he’s even got that concerned, worried frown on his face when he gets to their seats.

“Took you a while. Everything okay?”

“Geez, Danny,” he snaps, his patience nonexistent. Everything grates, scrapes on his nerves like sand underneath his skin, has been for a while now, pretty much since he got out of the hospital but right now, he can’t seem to be able to keep a lid on it. “You’re timing how long it takes for me to take a leak now? We’re on a commercial flight for God’s sakes. There was a line,” he growls.

“Problem is, I got a clear line of sight to the lavatories from here, Steven. You wanna maybe try that one again, maybe with less snapping?”

Anger flashes bright, quickly replaced by shame. He’s not sure what he’s most pissed about; that he lied to Danny (something he’s never been very good at) or that he got caught doing it, or that he’s so irritable in the first place.

He huffs out a breath, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, look, I… I just…”

“Bad dream?”

He nods, blowing out another long sigh, looking out through the tiny window at the clouds.

“I get it. You don’t have to talk about it. Just… Say you don’t wanna talk about it.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Okay, see? That wasn’t hard, was it?”

He shakes his head a little. “I don’t want to talk, period, okay, Danny? Please?” he says quietly and something must show in his tone because Danny just nods and actually settles into his seat, closing his eyes.

“Okay. Fine with me. M’tired anyway. Gonna sleep s’more.” He tilts his knees out towards the side, making room for Steve to pass. “C’mon. Sit. Chill out. We got a couple hours to go.”

“Yeah,” he puffs out, squeezing back into his seat.

Soon, Danny’s back asleep, head heavy on Steve’s shoulder and although this nightmare is now distant, sleep is not something that will return or something he craves. Other nightmares and terrors lurk in slumber’s shallows, too fresh in his mind. But his body’s exhausted, pushed beyond its limits, well beyond what little endurance it has recovered since the surgery and it wants to surrender.

So, he spends the remaining two hours of the flight fighting sleep and jetlag, the mix leaving him twitchy and even more irritable. He all but bites the CPB officer’s head off at the Customs checkpoint and the only thing that saves him hours of interviews and searches in secondary examination is the fact that his face is so well known throughout the HNL security facility.

Still when Danny puts a hand on his shoulder as he waits for the next available cab, he rounds on him, fists clenched, ready to hit.

“Whoa, whoa, cowboy. Chill out. I know getting pulled aside for a security check sucks but our clothes are full of gunshot residue after that op in Pakistan. What’d you expect?”

He stares at his partner’s too blue eyes, chest heaving with too quick breaths, tremors going through his whole frame.

“Steve?”

“I’m tired, Danny,” he says, voice shaking just a little. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay, I mean, you sure you’re all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” he answers as the taxi driver opens the trunk and moves to grab his duffle bag. “I just need some sleep.”

Danny nods once, an eyebrow raised, clearly doubtful but unwilling to challenge him. “Okay,” he says mildly. “See you in the morning then.”

“See you then.”

 

TBC....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the Steve Whump kind of has haijacked the story, but I haven't forgotten Danny. I do have one of the last bits already written, so there is that.
> 
> Thank you in advance for the time you took to read, commend and "Kudos".


	4. Unsteady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shuffles down the stairs and sits on the couch, gazing out at the ocean through the grey light of the stormy morning, trying to shake the perpetual feeling of instability he’s been carrying around since that day two months ago. It’s like he lost his footing and can’t gain it back, like he feels perpetually off balance.
> 
> Unsteady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Here, it's still April 2nd, so two chapters in one day!
> 
> Note the additional tags. Some are for this chapter, some are for upcoming chapters.
> 
> Chapter 5 is not very advanced, so it may take a while. Please bear with me. I do appreciate your patience.

* * *

_Unsteady  
_

_Hold_

_Hold on_

_Hold on to me_

_'Cause I'm a little unsteady_

_A little unsteady_

_Mama, come here_

_Approach, appear_

_Daddy, I'm alone_

_'Cause this house don't feel like home_

_If you love me, don’t let go_

_If you love me, don’t let go_

\- Lyrics from X Ambassadors - Unsteady

 

He doesn’t sleep. When dawn comes, he’s been awake for over 72 hours, maybe more. He’s lost count with the jetlag.

He’s tired, body heavy and sluggish, mind just as weighed down. The irritability and anger have given way to a deep gnawing, colorless void.

He feels… He doesn’t have a name for the hollow, empty sensation in his chest.

It just…

Today, he doesn’t want to deal with the world, not when all he sees in his head are muzzle flashes from a 50. cal. spitting lead at him, all he can feel are the bullets searing, tearing into his flesh.

He… can’t push it down or lock it away into the box it belongs into. Not today. He knows well enough that some days, his head is not where it needs to be to do his job, and he’s not about to put his team in jeopardy because of it so he does the responsible thing.

He texts Danny, tells him he’s not feeling well, that he’s home and taking a day to get over the jetlag. No, he hasn’t been kidnapped, no, he’s not going anywhere, but he’s turning his phone off so he can get some rest. The landline still works, if they need him that badly and he’ll text when he gets back online.

His phone buzzes with a _Rest up. Feel better, babe_ text a second before he shuts it off and although it’s barely past 0500, he doesn’t cross his mind to wonder why Danny’s even awake.

He shuffles down the stairs and sits on the couch, gazing out at the ocean through the grey light of the stormy morning, trying to shake the perpetual feeling of instability he’s been carrying around since that day two months ago. It’s like he lost his footing and can’t gain it back, like he feels perpetually off balance.

Unsteady.

The word clings to his mind like a burr, irritating and impossible to ignore.

Unsteady.

He shakes his head and rubs a hand over his face, still contemplating the approaching storm.

He feels out of control. It’s like ever since he got shot, nothing makes sense anymore, like he isn’t himself anymore. He feels… Vulnerable.

Helpless. Weak.

Now that he’s put a name to the emotion that’s been gnawing at his innards, it’s as if he’s opened a rift inside his soul. How can he feel so terribly weak and vulnerable when he has all of these people around him, shoring him up, protecting him, _helping him_?

He gives himself a firm mental shake.

Enough.

Self-pity isn’t something he indulges it and nothing good comes of it. Maybe he is just overly tired, he muses, rubbing at the long scar marring his chest. His recovery from the transplant went well but he never really took it easy, never gave himself a real chance to recuperate. Maybe this is his body telling him to take a breath, take a break, regroup.

He decides that maybe a shower and some coffee will help.

The shower doesn’t really help and the coffee either, even after the splash of whisky he adds to it.

Apparently, the morose feeling has decided to stay so despite it being barely past dawn, he switches to straight up whisky. Not a lot, just a couple of fingers in the bottom of his cup. He refuses to think about what drinking this early in the day means, especially with a liver transplant and the meds he took for it not fifteen minutes ago.

He nurses the whisky till 0800, till the storm breaks. Maybe he takes that long to finish the liquor out of guilt, or maybe it’s out of fear. He doesn’t know. He does know he shouldn’t be drinking but some reckless part of him doesn’t care.

He stands at the window with his empty tumbler watching the rain lash at the panes of glass, an wonders why images of his father doing the same thing keep turning over in his head.

It’s almost 0900 when he lifts the empty cup to his lips before he remembers drinking the last sip close to an hour ago. He gets the bottle from the den and pours a couple more fingers but he brings the bottle with him this time. He rubs his fingers over the scar on his chest, another uncomfortable pang of guilt flashing in his brain before he quashes it. Yes, he knows he shouldn’t be drinking, not this much, or even at all, not the hard stuff anyway. A beer or two, a couple glasses of wine, sure but it’s not a habit and it’s been two months since the surgery. Technically, he can drink now, if he wishes.

Still, the scar burns today.

He finishes the second cup around eleven and his eyes haven’t left the horizon. His mind is still lost in dark turmoil and he still hasn’t figured why this whole thing has him so off balance.

He takes the cup and the whisky back into the den, sits at his desk, eyes on the picture on the edge.

He leans forward, tracing a finger over the smiling faces: Mary-Anne; Little Joan, and Aunt Deb. The last time they were together.

Before she died.

It makes the empty hole inside his chest clench, ache with loss.

He puts the photo back and takes the next frame, a much, much older photograph. A much younger eyes set of eyes look at him through a chasm of time.

His dad. His mom. Him. Mary. Smiling. Laughing.

His heart squeezes painfully and yeah, okay, maybe that’s it.

Maybe he just misses his family, and misses having one? Misses having them around. Like this life is taking everything he has. Getting shot took the Navy from him and took a part of his future away from him.

He holds the picture in his hands for a long time, hours, just caressing the glass, missing what they had. He doesn’t know why today he misses this. He still doesn’t get why.

He thinks maybe he should pick up the phone, call Mary. Skype maybe?

Somehow, something tells him it won’t matter. It won’t change how he feels.

He stares at the photo again and… He’s sitting in his mother’s lap, her arms around him as he’s leaning back into her embrace so he can look up at her. There’s a big smile on his little boy face and it is almost as if he can still feel it, still feel her arms around him, and still feel all of the love that radiated through that embrace.

He shivers, feeling the coldness of the room around him, the sudden absence of warmth in it, feeling the crushing _loneliness_ that seems to cling to him like some sort of deadly shroud. It’s like it was fated that everyone he loves would be taken from him or risk death by staying being close to him. Or that the ones who stayed would undoubtedly betray him.  Either way, he ends up isolated and alone.

He puts the picture back on the desk carefully and stands, rubbing his hands over his arms, over his face.

Is that it? He’s… Lonely?

He paces the living room floor, shaking his head.

How can he feel so isolated all of a sudden? He’s always been a loner, by force of habit, because of his unique position as a SEAL, of his exceptional skills within the unit and his time with Naval Intelligence. He has operated alone a lot of the time, so this doesn’t make sense.

And he isn’t alone now -- not here, not since he’s been back on the island.

He stops in the den, pours more whisky into the cup and drains half of it in one gulp.

He sips the rest and pours more, drinks it, pours again. The hours pass and nothing changes. He paces, drinks, and thinks, trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense.

He’s been hurt before. He’s never been this _unsteady_ before.

The afternoon light begins to drop and another storm rolls in. The sun above the clouds heads for the horizon but there won’t be a postcard-worthy sunset tonight. The upper layers of the atmosphere cool, meeting the still hot, moisture-charged air trapped over the islands, thermals stirring harshly.

Thunder rolls, heavy and deep as he turns things over in his head, trying to make sense of it all.

He keeps thinking but nothing _makes sense._ He shouldn’t be feeling like this. There’s no reason. He survived. _He survived._ Why is this so different? Why does he feel like there’s nothing good left? Like he has nothing left?

He growls, frustrated, slamming the cup of whisky on the desk, liquid sloshing all over his hand and the blotter on the desk.

He’s spent all of his adult life living as a nomad. He had many brothers in arms, many friends but no constants. That’s what makes this whole mess so incomprehensible. Or maybe it’s the whisky he shouldn’t be drinking? His head aches and the room is starting to spin a little. He can’t muster the energy to care or be annoyed or even worried about what he’s doing to himself. He doesn’t even notice the hand that keeps rubbing at the scar on his chest or how he rubs at the faded one on the side of his forehead, over that bullet graze from a couple years ago.

He’s not alone anymore. He’s not!

Things are different now. He isn’t. Alone. Not anymore.

He has ‘Ohana the size of the entire island. He has more close friends that he’s ever had in his life, namely Danny, Chin, Kono and Lou. He’s got Mary…

He’s got Lynn, too. Sure, it’s not love, not yet, but maybe there’s something there, but that doesn’t bring him back to where he used to be, to where he wants to be, to feel like himself.

He’s not sleeping. When he is, he’s plagued by vivid nightmares that he can’t seem to wake up from. He used to love flying but he can’t sit on a plane without… freaking out. Panicking. Having fucking flashbacks.

He’s losing his shit is what he is and he wants _it to STOP._

What he wants is to find his balance again, go back to feeling like himself and he doesn’t know how.

He stands and paces, the living room swimming around him, until he stumbles and crashes onto the sofa.

He spits out a string of curses as the pain in his chest flares. He grabs a pillow and braces it against the incision, burying his head in his hands. He’s so tired. So tired. Why doesn’t it ever stop?

He can’t help but wonder when it will be enough, when he’ll get a break, when he’ll get to rest, catch his breath and maybe smile a little, get some good back in his life. Or maybe it isn’t in the cards for him. Maybe he’s doomed to feel pain and torture, and live in nightmare after nightmare, over and over again.

Maybe if he could sleep, just a little, without nightmares… maybe…

He just wants to rest. Just… to…

He doesn’t really notice he’s falling asleep. Doesn’t notice the tears leaking out of his eyes as he does, alcohol, mental and physical exhaustion winning over everything else.

-/-/-/-/-

It’s almost eight p.m. and Danny hasn’t had any news from Steve. Nothing since the five a.m. text. Maybe Steve’s still tired, maybe not feeling well enough to turn his phone back on? Or maybe he’s sick? God knows commercial planes are germ-spreading factories. So yeah, he’s worried. Since the transplant, his partner is more vulnerable, more susceptible to infections and he should see a doctor right away if he has a fever and --

That’s it.

He’s going over there. He grabs his keys, tells Grace to watch Charlie (Daaad… Yes Grace, I know he’s in bed, just keep an eye on him) because he’s going to check on Uncle Steve, bedtime’s still at 9:30, yes he knows he sucks -- eyeroll and all -- love you too.

He drives just this shy of too fast, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, quick little glances going to his phone every few seconds, willing it to ring. It doesn’t because that would be too simple.

The house is completely dark when he pulls up but Steve’s truck is there and so is the Marquis, so in theory, he’s there. In theory.

He gets out of the car quietly and walks up to the front of the house but instead of going for the door, he leans in to look through the front window to check the alarm panel.

The panel light is green. The system’s off.

He’s about to try the doorknob when he spots a motionless form on the couch, barely visible in the glow of the streetlight filtering through the glass and filmy fern-printed curtains. He leans in close, cupping a hand against the glass to get a better view inside the room.

Steve’s form is easy to recognize, at least to him, and he breathes a sigh of relief. His partner’s just asleep on the couch, in what appears to be a pair of old sleeping pants and a ratty tank top.

He tries the door quietly, finding it unlocked. He calls out Steve’s name quietly but the sleeping man doesn’t stir.

Danny talks quietly as he gets near, keeps a constant, steady flow of soft-spoken words, wary of touching Steve while he sleeps. Startling a Navy SEAL awake is never a good idea. Steve has never taken a swing at him when woken up and he’d like to keep it that way.

Carefully, he leans over his sleeping friend and places the back of his hand against Steve’s forehead. The skin’s a bit warm but not enough to be feverish. He blinks and bends closer, frowning.

Are those…?

Steve’s eyelids and lashes are damp, wet almost, his cheeks red, his nose… it looks as if… almost as if he’s fallen asleep… crying.  Danny can still see tear tracks drying on his cheeks and the pillow his face is buried in looks wet too.

“What’s the matter buddy, huh?” he whispers to himself, as distant thunder rolls. He sucks in a deep breath and straightens up, chewing on his bottom lip. He carefully picks his way towards the kitchen, turning on the light above the sink when he gets there, knowing only minimal light will reach the living room. 

He shakes his head, biting his lip hard, worry for his partner coiling in his gut as thunder rolls again, louder, closer. Big, fat raindrops start pelting the windows, a few at first, faster, faster, until the storm reaches land and the patter turns into a steady downpour.

Lightning flickers as Danny shoves off the counter towards the fridge and thunder booms as he opens the door. He pulls out carrots, celery, a fresh chicken breast and some herbs before silently closing the door. The lights flash for a second like the power’s gonna go out and he hears a metallic click that makes him go deathly still.

He knows that sound anywhere; a hammer being cocked. Shit.

“Ho, Steve, S’me. Danny,” he calls out. He puts his hands up slowly, produce, chicken and all.

Silence stretches, longer that he likes. “Steve?”

“Turn ‘round. Slow.”

He doesn’t argue and complies, keeping his hands up because his partner sounds strange, out of it. “Babe, it’s just me.”

The rain roars into a frenzied deluge and there’s Steve, eyes bloodshot, confused, meeting his gaze for barely a second before he wavers and lowers the gun. His shooter’s stance dissolves like a puppet who’s strings have been cut. Lightning flashes and the lights flicker again, thunder booming closer than before as the storm intensifies.

“Danny. Whatcha doin’ here?”

“Checking up on you.”

Steve blinks and nods slowly, turns on his heel, wobbles a little and pauses in the kitchen door. He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it.

“T’day’s not… Not a g’d day,” he mutters. “Go w’way Danny. Jus… go.”

The slur in his words and the unsteadiness on his feet screams alcohol to Danny. But Steve and alcohol don’t go together these days and Steve, alcohol and guns is not something that happens, ever, and that worries him a hell of a lot.

“Okay, I get you wanna be alone but you wanna maybe give me the gun first?”

Steve whirls around, stumbles impressively and crashes against the corner cabinet, arms flailing. Danny ducks with a shout, covering his head out of pure reflex as the gun swings wildly.  Steve loses his grip on the Sig and it clatters to the floor as he catches himself on the pantry instead of cracking his skull on the edge of the counter. He can’t get his feet under him. Instead, he crumples inelegantly to the floor just as lightning illuminates the kitchen for an instant, painting the whole scene in a surreal strobe effect.

“Son of a _bitch,_ ” Steve spits darkly, sitting up against the cabinets, rubbing at the elbow he smacked against the linoleum on his less than graceful landing.

Danny bends down and picks the dropped Sig, de-cocks the hammer and flicks the safety on. He ejects the magazine and pockets it, pulling the slide back and catching the round as it pops out of the chamber. He drops it into his pocket with the magazine and sets the gun on top of the fridge but he leaves the mag in his pocket. He’d rather leave the two separated for now.

“Why don’ you jus’ go back to y’kids, huh? I don’… need you…” Steve growls.

“Kids are fine, babe, but clearly, you aren’t. So, you maybe wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Y’ should… Go… ‘way. S’day’s not… Not a g’d day,” he murmurs and his voice breaks and his shoulders start to shake and he just… curls up in a heap on the kitchen floor by the pantry weeping quietly into his hands.

“Babe,” Danny utters, closing the distance between them in two steps, crouching by his side. What the hell is this? He’s really worried now. He knows Steve’s been struggling since the shooting, since the crash and the transplant but… This is… Steve losing control and that is… He can’t even put a name on the emotion it evokes.

“M’sorry,” Steve mumbles, as Danny puts his hands on both his shoulders. He catches the strong whiff of whisky coming off his partner and his worry about triples. Steve hasn’t touched the hard stuff since the transplant and how he missed this when he came in is another question entirely. Right now is not the moment to ask though. Right now, Steve needs his friend, not a lecture.

“Shh, shh, hey, no, don’t apologize. Bad days happen. Don’t care how you were raised, how you think this makes you look in whoever’s eyes. You wanna cry for a bit, go ahead. I’m here. I got your back.”

“I… I can’t… stop…”

“Maybe that’s because it’s been a hell of a long time coming, babe. So let it run its course. It’s like that storm out there. It’ll be done when it’s done.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, just cries silently for a few minutes and Danny just stays there on the floor by his side, a hand on his shoulder. Rubbing gently at his neck and squeezing the tense muscles off and on, letting the emotions run their course.

“Why’re you here, Danny?” Steve asks eventually, sniffling, between hiccupping breaths still full of tears.

“I was worried about you.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly. “Y’ a good friend,” he mumbles.

“Yeah. You maybe wanna talk? Tell me what’s going on?”

Steve shakes his head. “S’ stupid.”

“It isn’t if it’s making you this upset.”

“Y’ lucky, y’know that?”

“Yeah?”

“Y’kids, Y’love’em. They love you. Y’got y’parents… You got… everything. I… this... job… took… Everything from me. There’s… Nothin’ left. I jus… S’like… I dunno how t’ stand on m’ own n’nymore.”

Danny sighs deeply, squeezing his eyes shut tight for a second, giving Steve’s shoulders a squeeze. He gets it now.

“You’re wrong. Yeah. You lost a lotta things and you had a shitty time of it, and yeah, I’ll admit, you got more shit handed to you than you deserve. But let me get one thing straight: You ain’t got nothin. You got our ‘Ohana and you got me,” he says forcefully. “You got me, all right? You’re my brother, Steve. You know that, right? Blood ain’t got nothing to do with it. You’re my brother, my _family_ , and I love you, just as much as if you’d been born in Jersey with me, okay? Now, I know that’s not all what this is about, but you got me, man. You got it? I know today’s rough. I know. I been there. I got those days. Everyone’s got those days, babe. But you ain’t alone, and you ain’t gotta stand on your own. Ever. Now, you’re always taking care of your people, letting them know how much they mean to you, helping them out, being there for them. That love you give? It’s given right back, and that means you can lean on us too, when you need to. Saying you need us? That’s not being weak, babe, that’s being human. I know you don’t feel like it now but why do you think I’m here, making you chicken soup, huh?”

“Y’made me chicken soup?”

“I’m gonna make it, yeah. Charlie drew you a get well card when I told him you weren’t feeling well today. Grace said she has some herbal tea thing you might like, said it helped her sleep when she got stressed out, when I told her you were tired. Kono asked her auntie for some sort of broth for your immune system. Chin’s uncle Choi, who is still a very, very weird man, sent some hooch for you but Chin kept it, thinking it might not be best for your new liver but clearly today was an exception to that rule. You haven’t lost us. You still have your family. Let us help.”

Steve nods slowly, tears still streaking down his face. However, his shoulders have stopped shaking.

“You okay?”

“Think m’ little drunk, Danno.”

“I think so too. Come on, up off the floor. Some soup’ll do you good if you give me half an hour to make it.”

It turns out Steve’s reached the point where he’s too wasted to stand, so they end up sharing a couple cups of coffee, sitting on the floor. Danny can’t get Steve to talk, not about anything of consequence. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s too drunk or still too caught up in his emotions, or just too locked up inside himself and not fully ready to let it go.

So he keeps talking. He keeps a running commentary, keeping the man out of his head if he can, lightening the load a bit, maybe to give him some peace. He’s gonna talk until Steve reaches the point where he’s ready to talk a bit more about what brought him down into a bottle of whisky.

It takes him a few minutes to realise he’s talking to himself, right up until Steve’s head drops on his shoulder. The man’s dead asleep and there’s no waking him or getting him off the kitchen floor.

He sighs and digs out his phone from his back pocket. He texts Grace, letting her know Uncle Jerry is coming over to babysit for the night. He then texts Jerry to let him know. He spares a quick thought about Jerry being unavailable, out on a date.

He chuckles. Jerry? On a date? Right.

Before he has time to chastise himself for thinking like that, Jerry texts back.

 _“On my way. Take care of the head Honcho. He needs some of that famous Williams TLC Grace keeps talking about,”_ the message says.

Danny smiles crookedly. He has a feeling TLC will involve some tough love but right now, there’s a rough night to get through.

He manages to get Steve’s head off his shoulder and settles him against the cabinets so he doesn’t fall over and crack his skull. He stretches out his sore knee and heads to the linen closet. He finds a pillow, some blankets and a puke bowl, because let’s face it, the morning will suck.

 

TBC...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How am I doing? Please let me know!


	5. Kryptonite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " I think a part of you thinks you deserved to die on that plane and yeah, maybe you’re trying to hurt yourself a little, babe, maybe just to see if you’re really still alive, see if you’ll bleed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter! almost half of this story. It's kind of the lynchpin, the turning point. DUnno when I'll have 6 ready. It barely has 100 words at the moment.  
> Thank you to Sealie, my beta, for her tireless work.  
> Thank you to all the readers who are still on board.

* * *

_You called me strong, you called me weak,_   
_But still your secrets I will keep_   
_You took for granted all the times_   
_I never let you down_   
_You stumbled in and bumped your head,_   
_If not for me then you'd be dead_   
_I picked you up and put you back on solid ground_

 "Kryptonite" 3 Doors down

 

* * *

 

The uncomfortable, almost stifling heat wakes him. Wherever he is, the room is hot and brightly lit. He can feel the sun shining on his face. The sunlight is hurting his eyes even through his closed lids, drilling painful spikes right through his brain, all the way to the back of his skull.

Opening his eyes right away would be a very, very bad idea, especially for the epically atrocious headache. The rest of him doesn’t feel much better. His back, knees and incision are the most notable, but his entire body is one giant ache. He feels like he’s been put through a washing machine and left on the spin cycle too long. In fact, he feels as close to roadkill as humanly possible without being _actually_ physically dead.

The only positive thing is that he’s lying on something comfortable that feels remarkably like his bed. Only, that doesn’t mesh with the last place he remembers being. His last vaguely clear memory involves whisky and his kitchen floor.

And… Danny. He remembers Danny.

He shifts and groans, lifting up an arm to cover his face. He swallows, a vile taste of bile in his mouth, His sore body protests the abuse it was submitted to.

He unglues his tongue from the roof of his mouth, tries to moisten his lips and to try and get some of the awful taste from his mouth. He slowly stretches and rolls over to get the sun away from his eyes before attempting to open them, grunting and moaning pitifully throughout.

Once he’s got his back to the sun, he opens his eyes and it confirms what he thought. He’s in his bedroom, lying across the bed, the sheet tangled around his body. He’s naked, save for his underwear. There’s a towel spread under his head, the pillows are on the floor but the quilt is nowhere to be seen -- no wait. There. He spots it, tossed in the corner by the door. How did that get all the way over there? And how did he get here?

“What the hell?” he mumbles, pressing both hands over his eyes, trying to rub the gunk out of them because once he does, maybe what he’s seeing will make sense.

“You puked all over it. I didn’t want to leave you alone long enough to get it in the wash.”

He jumps, startled badly enough he almost falls off the bed before he registers the fact that it’s Danny’s voice, coming from the bench seat in the corner of the room.

“Danny,” he huffs, letting himself fall back to the mattress. “Fuck, you scared the shit outta me.” He closes his eyes as the room spins around him.

“Morning, babe. Although, it’ll be afternoon it about twenty minutes.” Danny’s tone is full of biting sarcasm, which he undoubtedly deserves, if only he could remember what the hell happened last night.

“Hey,” he mutters, jaw clenching as the room keeps spinning. He splays his hands on the mattress, trying to ground himself as his stomach churns with nausea, his mouth filling with spit. He swallows thickly and curls on his side, pressing his other hand over his mouth. The spinning fades but the queasiness grows. His stomach gurgles and he belches, the tang of bile and whisky flooding into his mouth. He groans pathetically. Oh god, he feels like shit.

“Oohhh… Fuck,” he curses through clenched teeth. Fuck, he is never, ever drinking whisky again. Ever.

“You good? You gonna puke again?” Danny asks. He doesn’t want to analyse Danny’s tone, not right now, not when he isn’t sure of the answer to the question he’s just been asked. No. No. He’s fine. He’s okay.

“Don’t… think so. Fuck… hate hangovers.”

“Don’t spend a day drinking whisky then. You sure you aren’t gonna puke? Because you’re looking greener by the second, babe.”

“No.”

“No you’re not sure, or no, you are?”

He swallows heavily as he feels a flush of heat rise through him, sweat beading all over and he goes from hot to ice cold back to hot in a single second. His stomach glugs and gurgles audibly. He sits up on the edge of the mattress and swallows again. The world tips sharply to the left and he grinds his teeth against a heavy surge of nausea.

“Steve?”

He doesn’t answer. He just stumbles out of bed and into his en-suite bathroom. Once there, He prays to the porcelain god like he’s the most fervently devout man in the world, for what has to be one of the longest half-hour of his life. He is most definitely paying for last night’s excesses.

There’s nothing in his stomach to bring up after the initial five minutes but he keeps retching, long after every single molecule’s been emptied out.

It _hurts_. The incision on his chest throbs with each vicious contraction of his abdomen. His gut’s crushed in so tight it’s like his new liver’s trying to come up his throat. It’s honestly the worst hangover he’s ever suffered.

Danny’s there throughout, grounding him through the storm. He puts a cold cloth on the back of his neck, keeps telling him to relax and breathe, two things he’s desperately trying to do but his body’s intent on making him pay dearly for every drop of alcohol he swallowed yesterday.

He doesn’t feel much better, even after his stomach stops its ferocious rebellion. He’s too dizzy and still too nauseous to go anywhere. The headache from hell is making his eyes water and making it impossible to think. He feels weak, shaky and hot, like he has a fever, sweat pouring off him in rivulets. He spends close an hour sitting up against the wall by the toilet, drinking the water Danny brings him, one careful, small sip at a time.

He’s trying to piece together what’s missing from his memories of last night, trying to distract himself from the ever-present urge to throw up. The longer he’s awake, the more bits come back to him. Photographs. Flashes of lightning. Danny and coffee. Vomit on the kitchen floor. Stumbling and crawling up the stairs. Sitting on the floor, in tears. Pulling a gun on Danny.

He puts his knees up and buries his head in his trembling hands.

Not his finest moments.

Danny’s there the whole time, leaning against the bathroom doorjamb, watching him quietly with a look on his face Steve can’t decipher.

He knows Danny’s angry with him. He took a really, really stupid risk with his health, drinking the way he did. Rationally, he knows this. It _was_ stupid and reckless and he knows it very, very well, somewhere deep in his mind. The problem is; he can’t really explain why he did it. He’s angry at himself too, but it’s like the anger is distant, disconnected. It’s like he can’t feel much of anything. It’s like it doesn’t matter.

He’s thankful Danny showed up, took care of him, cleaned him up, put him to bed and kept watch. He’s grateful Danny hasn’t said a word yet. He knows Danny’s giving him time, waiting him out. Maybe this is the day they finally talk, air out whatever’s been going on between them since he got shot.

He’s not looking forward to that if he’s honest. He doesn’t really want to talk, probably because he has a feeling it’ll be just as painful as the hangover, if not more. Baring his soul like that? He doesn’t even know if he can do it. But he owes Danny a hell of a lot and it’s high time he pulls himself together and finds his way out of this spiral of darkness he seems to be caught in. Besides, he’s not a coward and he’ll be damned if he lets a few bullets turn him into one.

He’s had enough of the numbness and anger and fear and unsteadiness. He wants back on solid ground and building himself back up has to start somewhere. He’s just not sure he has the energy to do it. Not today.

Still, thanking the guy who keeps saving his ass for doing it _yet again_ might not a bad place to start.

“Thank you,” Steve says. “For taking care of me, last night and this morning.”

“Yeah. Well, can’t say it was a pleasure. At least you didn’t puke on me. It’s better than my son at least,” Danny grouses.

Steve snorts, wincing as the pain in his head spikes. He drinks some more water, swallowing carefully. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s meant as a compliment.”

Danny chuckles and tosses his head. “So, how are you feeling? You think you could manage a shower? You stink to all hell, man.”

He still feels pretty awful but he thinks he’s past the ‘I will puke if I move’ stage. “One way to find out,” he answers. He lifts a hand towards Danny. His partner takes it and pulls.

Standing turns out to be a bad idea. The room tilts and spins, his fragile stomach lurching with it. He closes his eyes and grabs the counter for balance, swallowing heavily. God, he’s truly never had a hangover this bad. He stays braced against the counted for a long while, hovering over the sink, praying he doesn’t get sick again.

“Maybe I should just… stay here another while,” he murmurs after spitting out a mouthful of nausea-induced saliva into the sink.

“Let’s try this instead.”

He opens his eyes to see Danny place the water glass by his hand and open the medicine cabinet. He rummages through it as if he owns the place, taking out Steve’s regular meds and the box of Dramamine he keeps there for emergencies.

He casts a sideways glance at Danny through the mirror, frowning.

“I called Cornett while you were asleep. He said those were safe for you to take if the nausea got really bad, which I think it clearly is. He said otherwise you could get dehydrated and if that happens, it could mess up your electrolytes and your B12, which is apparently a big deal, because that puts you at risk of dropping your Immunoglobulins too low, and _that_ could mean risking the beginnings of rejection. Speaking of that, you need to take your anti-rejection meds and keep ‘em down, ergo, take the Dramamine so you can keep them down. You missed your morning dose already. When he asked what was going on… I uh, I told him this is just a one shot thing, with the crawling into a bottle of booze. Don’t make a liar outta me, McGarrett. Now take the meds.”

Wait.

What?

Danny called _his doctor?_

He wants to be offended.

He wants to be pissed off _so hard_.

On a positive note, the outrage he’s feeling seems to push away the queasiness just a little, enough so he can raise his head up a little more to glare at Danny. His friend just holds his gaze calmly, totally unfazed, unaffected. Once again, Danny stays quiet instead of calling him out.

He swallows another rush of nausea and lets his head drop, thinking.

He really, _really_ wants to be offended, wants to be angry at Danny for going over his head, for breaching his privacy like that.

But really, what is he going to say? They already live in each other’s pockets and they share an organ, now. They’re _brothers_. He owes Danny his life so many times he’s stopped counting and he’s going to get offended over a phone call to his doctor? A phone call Danny felt he had to make because his friend chose to crawl into a bottle of whisky and maybe did some real damage to himself in the process? And now, he wants to be upset? Yeah. Right.

He’s being a self-righteous idiot. Again.

So instead of being upset, he shuts up and puts up. He heaves out a sigh before lifting a hand off the counter and turning his palm up for Danny to drop the pills into. When he feels them land into his hand he slowly lifts his head up and meets Danny’s gaze again.

“Thanks,” he says, keeping his tone low, trying his best to keep the resurfacing anger out of it. Knowing he’s being a self-righteous ass doesn’t mean the anger he’s feeling doesn’t exist and controlling his emotions isn’t something he’s been doing too good with recently.

He starts with the anti-nausea pills, swallowing them with a few gulps of water. The bit of movement reawakens all his previously forgotten discomforts and his anger evaporates as quickly as it came. He pushes the toilet lid down and sits, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He’s sweating again, hot and dizzy, still feeling like ten miles of bad road.

“Oh, God… I’m… Never drinking whisky again,” he mutters.

Danny chuckles but stays silent throughout. He doesn’t leave.

Oh, Steve knows the silence is temporary, knows he deserves the rant he’s got coming but that’s not the bit that he’s worried about. He knows that questions will come, too. 

For now, Danny seems content to keep watch.

It should make him feel a little less isolated but instead, it makes his spine prickle with renewed irritation. He firmly pushes it down. He should be grateful Danny’s there and he is. He is. It’s just… He’s fine on his own too. He willfully ignores the little voice in his head that’s screaming at him, calling him a hypocrite and a liar.

After another fifteen minutes, the anti-emetic starts to kick in and the queasiness fades. He gives it another ten minutes before swallowing the rest of his meds.

He’s still dizzy and hung over but he feels well enough to shower, and he tells Danny so.

Danny leaves him to it, telling him he’ll get lunch ready. The thought of food makes his stomach think about rebelling again and he groans.

He hears Danny laugh as he makes his way down the stairs.

He takes a very, very long shower, letting the hot water wash off the sweat, grime and achiness from his body. He feels slightly more human when he emerges. It doesn’t really change where his head is at however. It’s still dark and confused and more messed up than he wants to admit or contemplate.

He takes the time to shave and dress, partly because it helps him feel more solid, but partly because it delays having to face Danny and having to answer the difficult questions he knows are coming. The main problem is; he’s not sure he has answers for the questions Danny will undoubtedly ask, the questions he’s been thinking about since he swallowed the pills half an hour ago.

He puts on his watch and heads down the stairs to find his partner in the kitchen. He’s sure he’ll find it spotless. It’ll be yet another thing he’ll need to thank Danny for. The list keeps getting longer and longer and he feels the weight of it all start to pile up again.

He sighs. It’s time to face the music.

 

* * *

 

He hears Steve come down the stairs and walk into the kitchen as he digs the butter out of the fridge. He’s just waiting on the toast and everything will be ready.

“Food’s on the table. I’ll be right there with the toast,” he calls out over his shoulder.

“Okay. Thanks,” Steve says. His voice sounds rough and scratchy, his throat raw from the endless puking the man’s done. Danny’s glad the meds worked because he’d seriously been minutes away from dragging his partner to Tripler, no matter if Steve got pissed or not.

He’s set the table with two bowls of steaming chicken noodle soup. It smells heavenly if he’s any judge and unless he’s wrong, Steve hasn’t consumed anything that wasn’t booze since they left London, so he should be starving by now. He just hopes his stomach can take it.

The toaster spits out two perfectly browned slices of bread which he wastes no time in buttering. He gets to the dining room just as Steve sits at the table.

“Smells good,” Steve says as he stirs the soup. Danny watches as he spoons the chunks of white meat, carrots, celery and noodles into his mouth. He smiles and moans happily. Clearly, his stomach’s settled and hunger has set in.

Steve plunges the spoon back into the bowl and before long, he’s eaten the whole thing along with the two slices of toast.

Danny can almost see the energy flowing back into his partner’s body, color getting back into his cheeks as the food fills him.

Good. It makes Danny smile. He’s done his job and it makes him happy. He’s a caregiver, a nurturer. It’s what he does and, man, does Steve need it these days, no matter how ill-tempered he gets. At least, this is something Steve will let him do. If Steve won’t tell him why he’s so out of sorts, he’ll at least let Danny feed him. It’s a step in the right direction. A baby step, but a step nonetheless.

It does nothing to assuage his worry over Steve’s frame of mind. He needs to get through to him. Today. Because seriously? This self-destructive spiral he’s stuck in needs to stop, period. Steve said some things last night and he can’t just let them go.

“Hmm. God, I needed that. Thanks for the food, man.” Steve groans happily, leaning back in his chair as he drops the spoon into the empty bowl with a clatter.

“You’re welcome babe. You look better too. So you ready to talk?” Danny chances. He’s never been one to back away from a fight and a fight he knows is what he’ll get by asking Steve to talk.

He’s right. He can see Steve’s good mood instantly evaporate and he bites his lip. It’s pretty much the reaction he expected but he’s not letting Steve off the hook, not this time. Not after last night.

“Danny.”

“So what happened last night? Because when I got here, you said some things…” he presses. He’s not about to let Steve close back up now. It’s gone on long enough. Last night was a cry for help even if Steve doesn’t realize it and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t listen to it.

Steve sighs, tossing his head. “Look, Danny, it’s nothing to worry about. I was just tired. I got…  I dunno, I was exhausted and… I felt sorry for myself, I guess. I drank more than I should have.”

“Mo—More than you should have? That’s what you’re going with? You gave yourself alcohol poisoning! I was _this_ close to calling an ambulance, Steve!” Danny snaps, his patience with his partner evaporated. He’s barely slept, spent hours cleaning up vomit, nursing Steve through the hangover from hell and for what? To get stonewalled again? No thanks, nu uh, no sir. Not again.

“Geeze! Don’t shout, Danny! I have a headache.”

“You have a headache? Well excuse me for being concerned for you! You’re not taking care of yourself! You go back to work like nothing friggin’ happened and now this? I am worried about you. We all are. Do you realize… Do you realise you almost… You could have killed yourself yesterday? If I hadn’t come to check on you?” Does the idiot not realize what he did? How badly this could have ended? Danny can’t believe his partner is that deluded, that far gone. Steve’s head is really, really that far up his ass? Wow. It really is worse than he thought.

“Danny, don’t be dramatic,” Steve says, scratching his thumbnail between his eyes, his classic tell for stress.

“Don’t. Do not ‘Danny’ me. I’m serious. You drank enough to give yourself alcohol poisoning, Steve,” Danny repeats. “You were passed out on your kitchen floor for hours before I could wake you up and get you to bed for God’s sakes! You puked while you were barely conscious. You were lucky I had you sitting up and that the only things that got ruined are your quilt and your clothes. You could’ve choked to death on your own vomit if I hadn’t been there. You think about that? How is that not almost killing yourself?”

Steve shakes his head vigorously, his denial as vehement as ever. “No. No,” he repeats. “I didn’t… I… It wasn’t… Danny it’s not what happened.”

“No, it didn’t because I. Was. There. By chance. But it could have and the fact you don’t realize it could is friggin scary, babe. It’s… It’s almost suicide, Steve.”

There, he’d said it. He’d used the actual word.

The look of disbelief and betrayal on Steve’s face is deep.

“I’m not suicidal, Danny,” he growls.

“No? Reckless to the point of endangering your life is pretty damn much the same damn thing, Steve,” he yells, completely fed up with the brick wall in front of him. He’s gone this far. He may as well lay down his trump card. “I checked with Cornett, when I called him. You’re back on duty against medical advice. You’re doing this AMA. You have been, even since the day you got discharged.”

“You did WHAT?” The look Steve lays on him is murderous but Danny doesn’t care. He’s reached his breaking point with his friend. He can’t let this go on longer because if he does, he’s sure Steve will end up truly hurting himself (or worse, God forbid), and soon too, if he’s honest.

“I know you’re pissed off but shut up and listen! You’re not supposed to be back at work. You haven’t been medically cleared.  You aren’t even cleared for light physical activity, let alone field duty. Seriously, what are you trying to pull, Steve? Are you seriously, willfully trying to hinder your recovery? Are you really trying to kill yourself on the job because if you get shot or even seriously hit like this? You DIE! Even taking a bullet to the vest like this can kill you! Do you not realise that?”

“Stop being so dramatic!” Steve yells back, anger twisting his features.

“I am not being dramatic! Jesus Christ, don’t you get it? THIS IS SERIOUS, STEVEN! Did you not read any of the material they gave us? Less liver means less liver enzymes, means less clotting factors! It means a significantly higher risk of bleeding and it’s a lot worse for you because in the case of the graft recipient, it takes _months_ for the liver to grow back, not weeks, like the donor, which is why I’m cleared and you’re not.  Not to mention your increased susceptibility to infection because you’re seriously immunocompromised!”

“Danny,” Steve tries, but Danny’s not having it. He’s done. He is _done_ with this.

“Shut up. I’m not done. This is reckless, Steve. You’re putting your _life_ in danger, every day you’re out in the field, you’re playing Russian roulette. Don’t tell me it’s not the same thing, and if you don’t realise it, then you’re in a lot more trouble than I thought. What are you trying so hard to prove huh? Five-0 will still be there in three months, when you’re healed and healthy and when it’s _medically safe_ for you to be out in the field!” Danny shouts at him, standing to pace the room.

“I’m not trying to prove anything!” Steve yells right back, shoving to his feet so quickly his chair falls over, clattering on the floor.

“Bullshit!”

“I’m not!” Steve shouts, arms spread wide.

“Then why the hell are you trying so hard to kill yourself huh? What, you wanna finish what the Navy started?”

Steve flinches, hard. It’s just as if Danny’s just punched him in the jaw and fuck, he did it again, him and his fucking mouth. He went too far and hit right where he knew it’d hurt.

“Steve, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Steve just shakes his head and looks away.

“Steve-“

“It’s fine, Danny,” Steve says, voice pitched low, his tone full of regret. He walks over to the back window, eyes on the beach and the horizon.

“No. It’s not. I’m frustrated and pissed and... My fucking mouth got away from me and I said something hurtful. I’m sorry.”

Steve doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the ocean.

“Steve—“

“You’ve said it. You’re sorry.” Steve’s tone is low and dark, wounded and it breaks Danny’s heart. He wanted to push Steve to talk, to make him face the demon that’s eating him up. Not make things worse.

He doesn’t know what to say next, so he keeps quiet, watching Steve.

At least, his partner seems to be thinking. Maybe his words made an impact. So Danny lets him stew, going back to the table and righting the overturned chair. He sits, stirring his now cold soup. He’s not hungry anymore.

It’s a solid five minutes before Steve speaks again.

“One of the things I’ve been struggling with is what this job cost me,” Steve says.

“I don’t know if you remember, but you said something along those lines last night.”

Steve nods.

Danny stays silent. He knows better than to say anything more right now. He’s already stepped on something sensitive. He’s not about to make things worse by opening his big mouth again. He knows talking about things like this is hard for his partner. He knows it, rationally, but the fixer in him wants to soothe, wants to make things easier, better for Steve. The problem is, this is something he can’t fix; right at this moment, he can only be there to listen, let Steve work through the mess in his head. He can show his support though. He abandons his bowl of soup, stands and walks over to the window, standing next to Steve, close enough to touch, but just outside his space.

“The job… If you look at how the taskforce was put together… Initially, it was Jameson’s play to keep me here, so Wo Fat could have me under his thumb. I quit the SEALs when he had my dad killed, after Freddie died when we captured Anton Hesse. That’s the first things that this job took from me -- my dad. Then, all the secrets and the lies with Joe and my mother… It destroyed whatever family I had left. It cost Malia her life, the love of Chin’s life, Danny, and that’s all on this job. If I hadn’t landed in jail, if Wo Fat hadn’t framed me, you’d have had those 3 years with Charlie. It… It even managed to weave Catherine into its web and it took her from me too. She’d never have met Doris. She’d never have lied to me. She’d never have gone over to the CIA.”

Danny blows out a long breath at that. Okay, some of what Steve’s said is pure hogwash, the twisted logic of a man who can’t see clearly through what’s arguably too much loss and too much pain. He’s forgetting how it drew him and Mary together, how it created this ‘Ohana they have, but some of it still rings true. However, he has a feeling Steve isn’t done so he keeps quiet, waiting him out.

This time, it takes less than a minute for Steve to start speaking again.

“The Navy. The Navy and the SEALs… Those are things I accomplished on my own. By myself. Those… that was me. And now… This god damned job… it took that away too. So it’s the only fucking thing I have left. So if I can’t do that, I have nothing. Nothing, Danny!” he says, turning towards him, arms spread wide, tears shining in his eyes. His voice is high pitched and tight and Danny knows he’s on the verge of breaking down again.

“Whoa, whoa, hold up! I won’t tell you how much bullshit that is because I think you know but you’re not ready to hear it just yet, and also because I already told you some of it last night, mainly about me being there, like a brother to you. But back it up a bit, babe. What do you mean, the Navy got taken away?”

“I was medically discharged. You can’t be in any branch of the military if you’re an organ recipient. It makes you ineligible for service.” The unshed tears in his eyes thicken and fall.

Steve tries to hide it, really he’s trying hard, Danny can tell, but the sorrow underneath the words is unmistakable, and it’s _deep._

Oh. Oh wow. That explains so many things. “Wow. So that’s why you’re so angry with me. Because I took that away from you when I gave you my liver.”

“Yeah, maybe. I dunno,” Steve growls crossly. He swipes angrily at his face as more tears rolls down his cheeks.

“But Steve, you still _can_ do this job, lead Five-0,” Danny says quietly, taking a step towards his friend, putting a hand on his bicep. “Taking the time you need to heal doesn’t mean you _can’t_. It’s the opposite. It’s taking a break to make sure that you are able to do it, for a long, long friggin’ time. All you’re doing now is taking stupid risks, like you’re trying to honestly kill yourself out there. I am truly, really scared for you, Steve. You’re my friend. You’re my best friend. You are my _brother_! My _chosen_ brother. I gave you my liver so you can _live!_ I didn’t know it would cost you the Navy, but I’d rather have you alive, even just as a cop than not at all. A cop is a public servant; you’re still serving. I know it’s not the same, but you forget: you built this taskforce too. You made it what it is. You.  And I want you _here_ to run it! So I’d rather have you at home recuperating and healing for three months than dead. Okay?” he says, his own throat tight, watching Steve, face.

“Why the fuck am I crying again?” Steve asks.

“Again, like I told you this last night: because it’s been a long, long time coming, and maybe because… because I think you’re depressed. I think all the shit that’s been happening to you for years has just caught up, and despite your above-average ability to cope, you almost got killed this time, and you can’t quite get past it, and you’re struggling to cope with too much, too fast. I think it’s survivor’s guilt too. I think a part of you thinks you deserved to die on that plane and yeah, maybe you’re trying to hurt yourself a little, babe, maybe just to see if you’re really still alive, see if you’ll bleed?”

“I’m not suicidal, Danny! I swear to God, I do not want to kill myself!” Steve chokes out.

 “Maybe not. But you’re not as okay as you want me to believe. Because this isn’t you. You’re not this emotionally unstable guy. You’re a rock, Steve. And I admire you for that. I may mock your training a lot but…. You have the ability to cope with shit that’s above average and I know that comes with being a SEAL and, yeah, I know you deal with it in your own way, but, babe, look at yourself! Look at what you’re doing! This isn’t you!”

Steve tears away from him and paces the living room. Danny follows but he stays by the archway leading into the den, giving Steve some room to stalk through the house, his steps heavy, furious, almost.

The sun’s still shining bright but inside, it’s as if a storm is brewing. Danny just doesn’t know if he should expect a hurricane, a squall or a tornado. Either way, he’ll wait Steve out.

After a couple minutes, Steve drops to the sofa, burying his head in his hands.

“Why? Why, Danny, why? Why does this keep happening to me?” Steve asks, rising his tear-stained face, giving him a look so heartbroken it physically hurts Danny to see it. “What did I ever do to deserve this? When is it enough? Huh? I got nothing left to give and, and, and… I got nothing left, Danny. There’s nothing left. Nothing. _Nothing!_ I can’t do this again, I _can’t_.” he says and he sounds so broken Danny can’t stand it.

Danny shakes his head and takes three giant steps to join Steve, grabbing one of his wrists, drawing him close as he completely falls apart.

“You don’t have to, not on your own. I’m here. Shh, Shhh. It’s okay. I’m here.” He bites his lip, his own eyes filling. How long has this been brewing? How long has this been festering inside his friend? He knows Steve’s been struggling. He _knows_. It’s why he showed up last night. He just didn’t have any clue how just how bad it was.

Danny keeps murmuring reassurances and soothing nonsense until Steve calms down and pulls away, wiping his face in his hands. He doesn’t know what to say, really, now that the proverbial cat’s out of the bag. So Danny offers something tangible and immediate, tends to the physical needs.

“I’ll get you some water, okay?”

“Yeah.”

He goes into the kitchen and turns on the tap, and lets it run as he leans against the sink, thinking about the next step. He needs to get Steve into Tripler and into counselling. Today. He just can’t leave him like this. He stares out the kitchen window, at the magnificent view of the beach, at the beautiful day outside as he thinks. It’s such a contrast to the mood inside the house it’s almost jarring.

A million scary things are running in his head like usual: what if he doesn’t want to? What if he doesn’t stick with it? What if it costs him his spot with Five-0? What if, what if, what if, what if, _ad nauseam_.

Danny shakes his head and runs a hand over his face, scrubbing his eyes hard, reining in his hyperactive worrywart mind. This isn’t about him. This is about what Steve needs and right now, Steve needs him to be rock solid, so that’s what he’ll be.

He grabs a glass out of the cupboard and fills it, snagging a paper towel on the way out, to use as a tissue. He pauses in the kitchen doorway before heading back to Steve, takes the time to breathe deep and push back his own uncertainties and worries.

He hands both the water and paper towel to his partner, who’s still working on composing himself.

“Here,” he offers, squatting in front of Steve, who pointedly refuses to look at him.

Steve takes the glass and drains it, before blowing his nose and wiping his face.

“Babe? Talk to me.”

Steve draws in a breath and holds it, but stays silent for another long, pregnant moment.

“I think… I think--” he pauses, exhales explosively, takes another breath and swallows. “--I think I’m not okay, Danny.”

“I know,” Danny replies, moving to sit by his side. He puts a hand on the back of Steve’s neck and squeezes gently. “You just need a bit of help to get your feet back under you. That’s all.”

“You’re a good friend, Danny.”

Danny smiles crookedly, huffs and chuckles a bit. “I can be a pain. But I do have my moments.”

Steve nods once and lifts a hand to rub at his temples, eyes open to slits. His headache must be back, Danny guesses.

“Headache?” he asks.

“Worst ever.”

“Why don’t you go lie down for a bit? We won’t get anywhere with you feeling like crap. I’ll stick around. Cook you dinner, even. We’ll figure things out then. Okay?”

Again, Steve nods slowly. “You, um… You could call Lynn. She… She uh, she has friends… colleagues that… specialise in, in… trauma. She ah, offered, a few weeks back.”

Ah.

“Ah.” That explains so, so much. Probably why Lynn’s been so conspicuously absent for a few weeks. Steve’s girlfriend may be a child psychologist, she’s probably seen the signs of trouble in Steve a lot sooner than Danny has, and Steve undoubtedly had not appreciated her attempt at help. “You, uh, you’ll need to apologize at some point I guess?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“Okay,” he said neutrally. “Go lie down. I’ll bring you some ibuprofen,” he adds, gently squeezing the back of Steve’s neck.

Steve doesn’t say anything. He just stands and heads up the stairs, slow and listless. Danny doesn’t waste any time in getting him the meds, which Steve takes without protest before curling on his side and closing his eyes.

Danny drapes the sheet over him by principle and opens the window, letting the ocean breeze air out the room and rid it of the lingering stench of vomit emanating from the soiled quilt.

He stays close, sitting on the edge of Steve’s bed, keeping watch as he’s been doing, just in case but Steve’s asleep in minutes, mentally and physically drained.

Once he’s sure he’s truly down for the count, he carefully stands, grabbing the dirtied quilt behind the door before closing it softly. He holds it at arm’s length, frowning in disgust at the smell emanating from it. He shakes his head. He thought he was done with this kind of thing once Grace hit her teens but apparently, having Steve as a partner is the equivalent of having five-year-old Charlie, as far as his parenting skills are concerned.

He dumps the soiled linen into the washing machine, starts it on hot and heads back to the living room after washing his hands. He drops heavily onto the sofa and pulls out his phone. He stares at the dark screen, staring at his reflection on the glass.

He knows all about the proverb that says be careful what you wish for because you might get it. Oh, he got his wish all right. He got Steve to admit he isn’t doing all right. Right now, he’s fervently wishing he hadn’t gotten what he wanted.

He’d give almost anything for Steve to be okay.

He presses the activation button on the side of his phone and scrolls through the contacts, finding Lynn’s number. Calling Steve’s girlfriend doesn’t even register on the scale of awkward things he minds doing or has had to do ever since meeting the guy, especially not now.

It’s still a tiny bit uncomfortable.

Lynn isn’t really surprised by the call, once he reassures her that Steve’s all right, at least physically. She recommends a colleague who will do house calls, even manages to have him come by tonight, for which Danny is endlessly thankful for.

So much so that he invites her for dinner.

“Spaghetti Carbonara. You’ll love it,” he says. “I figure our boy deserves some comfort food and we could use it too.”

“Danny, I don’t… I don’t want Steve to feel ambushed.”

“I get what you’re saying, doll, but… Right now, my opinion? He needs to feel us there for him. He’s feeling pretty damned isolated and he could use some TLC.”

“He might be okay with you seeing him at his most vulnerable but I’m not sure we’re there yet. You know how he is.”

“I do, but he needs to know he’s not alone and that he can count on the people who love him when he needs to,” he says, weighing his words carefully. He doesn’t know the kind of love Lynn and Steve share, how deep it goes. That’s none of his business but it’s love all the same, and right now, Steve needs to be smothered in it. If he could, he’d get the whole team here, get every single one of them to tell Steve how much he means to them, how he’s been there for them, how much he’s loved. For now, it’ll just be the two of them. “He needs to know that we’ll be there for him, even when he’s vulnerable. Are you saying you can’t be there for him? Is that it?” he asks, knowing it’s a cheap shot. He’s not above using some interrogation tactics to get what he wants at the moment.

“No, not at all. I’m just… No. No, you’re right.”

 He points a finger at the ceiling, even though no one can see him. “I know I am. Besides, again, he’s the one who suggested I call you. Pretty clear in McGarrett speak.”

Lynn gives a soft laugh on the other end of the line. “Okay. I’ll give you that, Danny.

“Come by around five. He should be awake by then. If not, you can wake him up.”

“All right. I’ll see you then.”

“All right. And thanks for the help.”

 

* * *

 

Steve wakes slowly, emerging from a deep sleep, one layer at a time.

The first thing that registers is a soft, gentle hand caressing his back and a small, warm body tucked next to his hip.

He swallows and inhales, stretching languidly, enjoying the comforting, familiar touch, the familiar feminine perfume. Wait. Feminine?

“Steve? You awake?”

He frowns, opens his eyes. “Lynn?”

“Hi, sweetie.” She smiles. Her expression is shy, maybe a little wary. He’s still half asleep, but he has a fairly good idea why she’s here. He’d like to forget the last 24 hours but that’s not happening. Still, he’s happy to see her.

“Hey. Danny called you?” he asks, stretching and rolling to his back. Her hand slips from his back to his hip, resting there, her thumb absently caressing the crest of his pelvic bone.

She nods. “He did. He, ah, invited me to dinner. I hope you don’t mind?”

He shakes his head. “No. Look, I’m sorry fo--”

“Don’t. You don’t owe me an apology. I pushed you, and you weren’t ready. I’m just glad…” She pauses, takes a deep breath and looks straight into his eyes. “I’m just glad that you’re ready now, and that you’re willing to let your friends help, and that you had Danny reach out to me.”

“I should have called you. Myself.”

“Hey. It’s okay.”

He sighs and lifts his gaze back to hers. “I’m still sorry.”

“You know what I do for a living. I know how this works. You did what you could, the best way you could. I understand that and I’m not angry at you. But I want you to understand that I care about you, and I’m here for you, good or bad. You want me here, I’m here. You need space, that’s okay too. Just… talk to me a little. Let me know if you need the space or the company. Even if it’s just to veg out on the couch, watch the waves, or eat a pint of ice cream, or just bitch at the world, okay? You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to push me away. I won’t think less of you because you’re struggling.”

He nods, but he can’t meet her gaze.

“You are not alone. Okay?”

Steve swallows heavily, a lump blocking his throat, a fresh rush of tears stinging at his eyes. “Yeah,” he chokes out.

“C’mere,” she says, opening her arms wide, inviting him for a hug.

He sits up and wraps his arms around her, drawing her close. “Thank you,” her murmurs into her hair.

“You’re welcome, sailor.”

“So this… thing,” he says, still not letting her go, “this… depression?”

She exhales and nods against his shoulder. “I won’t get technical, but yeah.”

“So… I need… medication?”

She pulls back from the hug, taking both his hands into hers, giving him another of her soft, reassuring smiles.

“Probably, and counselling. You’re a psychologically strong person, Steve. You’ll adapt, get over this, and get back on your feet. You just need a little time and a bit of help. You know what physical trauma can do to the psyche. You’ve been in combat. You know better than I do that you can’t predict a person’s reaction to a trauma like the one you’ve suffered. Add on a life changing event like an organ transplant… It would throw anybody for a loop. So please, quit beating yourself up about why this is happening now and focus on healing. Think about it like this: look at how much it took to bring you down, at how much you survived before something brought you down. You know there’s no shame in it. I _know_ you know that. You will be all right, and in the meantime, let your friends take care of you and be there for you. Okay?”

He nods and gives her a crooked smile. “Anyone ever tell you you’re pretty good at this?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You should, I dunno, be a psychologist or something,” he says, giving her a crooked smile.

She laughs and shoves him back onto the bed. “You’re a funny guy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re cute, too.”

“Oh Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She leans in to kiss him as he pushes to his elbows to meet her halfway but a shout from downstairs makes them both freeze.

“YO! LOVEBIRDS, DINNER!”

She leans forehead against his and he huffs out a laugh. “Perfect timing, as usual,” he grumbles.

“Hmm, yeah. Come on. You need to eat. You’ll need the energy. My friend Michael McKinnley is coming by around eight, to get you started on the road back to being your old self. I, um, I figured you’d prefer a house call, something more discreet?”

He sits up, eyes closed, nodding slowly. “Right. Yeah. Thanks for that.”

“Hey. We good?” she asks, unsure. He doesn’t like hearing uncertainty in her voice. It’s one of the things is always liked in her: her self-confidence.

“We’re good.” He tries to give her a warm smile but he isn’t sure how successful he is. Her own smile turns warmer.

“Good. Let’s go eat. Danny made Spaghetti Carbonara. He said it’s going to get you right back on your feet.”

“Right.”

He has a feeling he’s going to need it. He’s made it this far. He isn’t going to back down now. Both Danny and Lynn are right. He has people in his corner and he’ll get past this and there’s no shame in healing his mind as well as his body. God knows he stood on the other side of that argument with some of his men and meant every word.

He gets to his feet and grabs Lynn’s hand, pulling her to him. “Thanks for coming tonight. I’m sure Danny had to insist. I’m sorry I’ve been distant.”

“It’s okay.”

“So. This… McKinnley guy…”

“He’s good at what he does. You can trust him.”

Steve drew in a deep breath through his teeth. “He, um, he ever worked with vets?”

Lynn tilts her head, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Yes, he has. Like I said. You can trust him.”

He drops his chin to his chest. “Yeah. Okay.”

This wasn’t going to be easy. Nothing about this had been easy but this was going to be the hardest step. He gave a humorless snort. After all, the only easy day was yesterday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. As usual, concrit is most welcome.


	6. Learning to walk again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he hands Danny the invitation for his retirement party and the secret award ceremony, a week before the event, he feels a little thrill of excitement. 
> 
> “You’ll be happy to know that this event requires formal dress, Danny. Suit and tie not optional. I’m sure you’ll be happy about that,” he says, holding on to the top of the envelope as Danny tries to take it from his hand. 
> 
> Danny smiles. “One time you ask me to wear a tie on this island that’s actually for you.” 
> 
> “Hey, first time for everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It took me a little under 2 years but I got it done.
> 
> The last 20-page cahpter hasn't been beta read because I'm an impateint bitch and I cannot wait to get it out, mistakes and all, and I don't have a laptop at the moment so when I can borrow one, I make the most of it. So, mistakes are ALLLLLL mine.
> 
> Still I owe IMMENSE thanks to Sealie for the humongous marvellous job she did on this monster.
> 
> I hope you like this ending, and it brings satisfactions to those Danny fans who needed him to be recognized for the bravery he showed in 6.25

* * *

 

 

Steve wrestles the vial open and shakes out four of the tiny pills into his hands and stares at them, sucking in a heavy breath.

Every day. Every damn day, it’s the same thing. He takes them, because he has to, but he hates, _hates_ them, hates the damn pills. Hates that he needs them. Hates the fact that they help even more.

He _hates_ needing the help. 

No. Not hate.

It’s too light a word for what he feels about having to take the fucking pills. 

He growls and snorts out a derisive breath. This is probably something he’ll need to tell Mike about.

Joy.

But. He’s doing better. Really he is. 

He’s sleeping better.

He hasn’t had an anxiety attack or a flashback since he’s been on the meds. 

The most notable thing is that he feels less like he’s hovering at the edge of a cliff. He feels like the ground under his feet is more solid, steadier, and that if he gets shoved, one way or another, there’s space for him to place a foot to regain his balance.

The fact that Mike managed to convince Cornett and his new internist (whose name he can never recall) to let him work makes a difference. Hell, it makes all the difference.  

It keeps his mind from spinning in circles and it makes him feel useful, it lets him be with the people he cares about and who care about him. Mike knows he’s still not following doctor’s orders, knows he hasn’t stayed behind his desk.  

At least now Steve realises why Danny had reasons to be worried. 

Mike’s not happy about him still being out in the field but Mike’s role isn’t to _control_ him. It’s to help him heal and make the best choices for himself. He still doesn’t get what the big deal is about field work but he’s still the one in control of his life and that matters to him. He knows his limits. He’s not stupid, suicidal or reckless. Not _like that_.

But the pills help. Helped.

Till today.

Until Madison Gray got the drop on him and almost drowned him and Alicia. Today was a really bad one.

He’s back home now, left alone with his thoughts, and the echoes of _why me_ , _again, why always me, what have I done to deserve this_ drift through his head on a loop.

The knife wound in his back aches and throbs, he feels feverish and that in itself bring another whole host of anxieties: sepsis, rejection…

He stares at the setting sun through the living room window, both hands tangled in his short hair, nails scraping at his scalp.

He messed up. 

He shouldn’t be out in the field. It’s his damn _fault_!

Danny was right all along. Gray got the drop on him and because of that; Alicia almost got killed, because he was too slow, not quick enough, too-

 _‘Stop it_ _,_ _’_ he tells himself firmly, shaking his head, tugging on his hair a little harder.

He hates this new insecure, self-doubting part of himself. He hates the transplant even more sometimes. Hates that it’s what finally broke him. It broke him into this pathetic mess that has anxiety and depression issues that needs _fucking pills now_.

Knowing it’s the depression talking doesn’t kill the doubts about his place in the field. That niggling little voice just. won’t. shut. up.

He draws in a deep breath and rubs at the lump at the edge of his hairline, where Gray and Donald what’s-his-name both hit him. Negative thinking won’t get him anywhere and neither will the whisky he feels like drinking (but won’t. He had his lesson on that one).

So he goes back to his old, rational self. The self he was before, the one that served him se well before, the one he wants to go back to. The pre-transplant Steve. What would he think right now? How would he analyse today? 

Simple. He’d give himself a bit of a break and roll with the hits, and get back up again. So he starts by giving himself a break.

He’s tired, he’s got a concussion and the headache that come with it and he’s fighting a probable infection he likely picked up from sea water or some debris from the cave contaminating the stab wound. His truck is a burned out hulk of metal and the perp got away.

He’s allowed to feel a _little_ sorry for himself but letting it drag him back down in a well of self-pity?

No. That isn’t acceptable. Not again.

So instead, he follows Mike’s advice: he owns up to what he’s feeling and puts it into perspective.

He survived and so did Alicia. 

Win. 

There are two less serial killers on the island. 

Win. 

He’s got a week free to relax and unwind, maybe sleep in. 

Win. 

He’ll have all the time in the world to pick Danny up at the airport in three days.

Win.

Shit. Danny.

He checks the time. Late for Jersey time, but not so late that he’ll get his head bitten off. He grabs his phone.

He isn’t surprised when it barely rings once before he’s hearing Danny’s voice.

_“I really canno_ _t leave you unsupervised, can I?”_

“For once, I’m not the one who broke into the perp’s house without a warrant or backup.”

_“You still_ _followed and_ _went in_ _without calling backup_ _of your own or without telling_ _anyone where you were heading.”_

He sighs. “True. In my defence, Alicia told me Gray wasn’t home.”

_“Yet you still managed to get yourself_ _kidnapped and_ _stabbed.”_

“Hey, I called you to take my mind off this shit day, not to make me feel worse, okay?” he snaps, his patience nonexistent.

There’s a bit of silence before Danny speaks again.

_“I’m sorry, babe. I just…_ _I_ _worry_ _,_ _is all. And when I get a call from the guys asking me if I know where you are and I’m thousands of miles away…”_

Steve heaves out a deep sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. Yeah, well, okay. He can kind of see Danny’s point. “Okay. Point. How’s the family?” he asks, changing the subject for both their sakes. The last thing he needs is to get into a fight with Danny. Their friendship is back to being what it was and their arguments back to being what they used to be: ribbing and good natured teasing in disguise, but the harshness and bitter edge of the last few months isn’t far under the surface and the last thing he wants is to go back to that.

_“Family’s good, Stella says hi, Bridget says she looks forward to m_ _eeting you_ _,_ _and ma and pop send_ _love. So what’s the damage, if I can ask?”_

“Seventeen stitches in my back, a mild concussion and a possible bacterial infection from the sea water. I’m back on the IV antibiotics for a week, so I have to go to the outpatient clinic three times a day so I’m off work for the duration. They’ve upped the Prograft too.”

_“_ _Ouch._ _I bet you’re thrilled._ _I bet your internist was thrilled_ _too_ _.”_

“Didn’t see him. Cornett wasn’t thrilled but Alicia told him it was her fault, so…”

“ _Hmm.”_

“You sound tired.”

_“It’s midnight, here, Steve_ _n_ _.”_

“Yeah, Sorry. I forgot about the time difference,” he lies. “I’ll let you get to bed.”

“ _Hey, no. Look. You called me because you needed a distraction. So, let’s talk.”_

“Okay.”

They chat about everything and nothing for about an hour, until Steve has to leave for his IV treatment. By that time, he’s more relaxed, more at ease. He might not sleep easy tonight, but he’ll sleep.

Thanks to Danny. 

Again.

 

* * *

He has to fight to wake up, sleep trying to keep him in its hold but something is tugging at his mind, pulling him out of Morpheus’ deep clutches.

Phone.

His phone is ringing.

He forces himself to open his eyes and grab it, answering it without looking at the caller ID.

“M’Garrett.”

“ _Commander McGarrett?”_

He blinks, rubs a hand over his gummed eyes, wincing when the movement pulls at the wound in his back. “Governor?” he responds, a little confused, not entirely awake.

_“I’m sorry Commander, I didn’t realise I’d be waking you.”_

“It’s all right,” he says, sitting up. “I should be up already,” he adds, glancing at his alarm clock. He’s supposed to be at the outpatient clinic in half an hour. “What can I do for you?”

_“I wanted your account on yesterday’s events and_ _your opinion on the next step in chasing Dr. Gray.”_

He spends the next ten minutes bringing the Governor up to speed and answering questions he doesn’t really have the answers to while getting dressed. He doesn’t have time for a shower or a cup of coffee if he wants to make it to Tripler on time.

He’s still talking to the Governor while tying his shoes, ready to head out the door.

_“There’s one other thing I need to talk to you about, Commander.”_

“Ma’am?” he says, carefully. Those words usually don’t bode well.

_“That request you made to my predecessor, regarding Detective Williams’ actions last May?”_

He freezes, his mouth going dry.

_“Commander?”_

“Y.. Yes Ma’am. I uh, I remember the request.”

_“You’ll be happy to know it has been granted.”_

“That- That’s great, Ma’am.”

_“The Attorney General also thought you might want to hand the award to Detective Williams yourself_ _instead of waiting for the Presidential ceremony next February_ _._ _I know the Navy has planned a retirement ceremony_ _for you next month. I believe_ _it would_ _be a perfect opportunity.”_

“I…uh…um… Yeah… I uh…”

_“I’ll have my staff coordinate with-“_

He doesn’t hear the rest of what Mahoe is saying over the noise in his head. “I’m sorry, Governor. I have to go. I have an appointment at Tripler,” he cuts in, not caring one bit about being rude.

He hangs up and drops his phone, his hands going numb. He distantly hears it landing on the floor. He can’t make himself care. His hands shake and he balls them into fists trying to quell the tremors but he feels them spread instead, up his arms, into his shoulders, into his chest, down his legs, until his entire frame is trembling. He turns away from the door, paces the length of the living room, rubbing hands he can no longer feel over his face.

He swallows thickly, his body going cold, his mind flooded with images of a helicopter sweeping into his peripheral vision, muzzle flashes, his ears buzzing with the sounds of sharp impacts of lead on steel over engine noise.

Pain, sharp and hot, burns into his chest, stealing his breath.

He stumbles, knees going weak. His hand catches the banister of the stairs but he ends up on the floor in a heap, huddled with his back against the side of the staircase.

He screws his eyes shut and presses his right hand against the scar splitting his chest as he gasps, trying to force air into lungs that seem suddenly made of concrete. 

“ _I’m gonna die, Danny.”_

_“Hey Steve, listen to me. I know you’ve never been any good at listening to me but right now you got no choice, you stubborn son of a bitch: do not die! HEY Listen to me! Do not die! I’m not landing this thing for you to die on me, you understand? Huh? Good.”_

“ _I’m gonna die, Danny.”_

“ _I’m gonna die, Danny.”_

The phrase swirls through his head on a loop, echoes through his mind, drowning out everything else but the thundering of his heart and the rushing of blood in his ears.

There’s no air, nothing but blood-tinted darkness and the rush of noise and the pain in his chest for an eternity. It feels like he’s dying all over again but there’s no one there to shake him out of it this time.

He doesn’t know how he manages it but he somehow drags in a choked breath, biting his lip and forcing himself to breathe out through his nose.

He didn’t die.

He did not die.

He’s alive.

He’s okay.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, repeating that mantra, breathing and biting his lip until it bleeds but when he can open his eyes, he’s drenched in sweat and shivering and his phone is ringing.

He turns his head, finding his phone on the floor by the door, where he dropped it.

He can’t reach it before it goes to voicemail and when he does, the screen shows five missed calls.

He’s late for his appointment.

He calls the clinic with shaking hands, tells them he overslept and they find him a slot in an hour.

He gets slowly to his feet, his legs still trembling, and heads back upstairs for a shower, still shaky and nauseous. 

He manages to somehow make it to his appointment and asks if there’s a way to do the treatments at home, citing a difficult schedule and the fact that the wound on his back makes it hard to drive.

The nurse smiles kindly and tells him that yeah, they can set him up for treatments at home, but he’ll need to have his IV catheter changed in four days.

He tells her that’s fine.

* * *

  
  


He goes to the pharmacy in a daze, like he’s not really there, like he’s not really inside his body. He knows the name of the feeling. Mike told him about it:  he called it dissociation. He knows he should call him, that he’s skirting with trouble but he’s too detached, too out if it to do anything about it.

Once he gets home, he shoves the bag of antibiotic solution in the fridge and leaves the rest of the supplies strewn on the kitchen island, climbing the stairs two at a time, until he can get to his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

He sits on the floor, his back against the bed, hissing when the wound on his back presses against the frame. The urge to find an even smaller, darker spot to hide in is almost overwhelmingly strong. 

He doesn’t feel safe here.

He feels _exposed_. _Vulnerable_. The words pinball around his head, hurting and sparking fear everywhere and he can’t--

His phone buzzes with a text. 

He ignores it, his hands shaking too much to even attempt to send back a response. He doesn’t care who it is or what it’s  about because _he’s not safe here._

He turns off his phone after that.

He just sits there, shaking and fisting his hands in his hair, trying desperately to find the tattered shreds of his control. He laughs, the sound watery and borderline hysterical. Some tough ass Navy SEAL he is… hiding in his bedroom because he can’t shake off getting shot.

Can’t shake off almost getting killed. How ridiculous is that, for a guy with not one but two Purple hearts?

He doesn’t know how much time passes but it’s dark when he hears a knock on his front door.

He doesn’t move to answer. He doesn’t want to see anyone.

The knock comes again, more insistent.

He ignores it, even when he hears someone shout his name.

The third time the knock comes, he can tell it’s a fist banging on the door.

“Steve? Steve! Steve! It’s Mike! Open the door! I need to know if you’re okay! Steve!”

Mike. He should have figured, if not Danny, Mike would come looking. He’s missed an appointment, he realises. 

The banging resumes and it’s louder, even more insistent.

Steve screws his eyes shut and presses his palms over his eyes.

“I’m coming!” he shouts back. He doesn’t even recognize his own voice. 

The banging stops.

He slowly gets to his feet, his whole body sore from sitting so long on the floor. He’s hit with the mother of all head rushes when he gets to his feet, the whole of his vision going dark. He stumbles and crashes into his dresser, pins and needles prickling in his hands, face and feet.

He braces both hands on the dresser and breathes, letting his head drop, chin to chest. It takes a minute but the room slowly comes back into focus, his vision clearing. He still feels shaky and dizzy and he suddenly realizes he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink in over 24 hours. Once he feels a little more solid, he carefully pushes off the dresser and makes his way down the stairs, holding onto the banister for balance.

He reaches the door and unlocks it, not bothering to open it. He turns around and drops to the couch, hearing Mike the therapist letting himself in as he buries his face in his hands.

He doesn’t look up when he hears Mike sit in the armchair.

“So, I guess I don’t have to ask how you’re doing. Not well is the obvious answer.”

He stays silent. Doesn’t even know where to start.

“I saw the news. Report said you suffered some minor injuries. You got looked at?”

He lets his hands drop from his face but he keeps his eyes on the floor. He nods.

“Good.”

A few minutes of silence pass but he knows Mike’ll push him to speak. 

“What happened today, Steve?”

He shakes his head, can’t… can’t push the words out. His watch chimes. Meds. It’s time for his IV.

He pushes to his feet, slowly, keeps his eyes away from Mike, heads to the kitchen. Runs away. 

Because he’s afraid. 

Scared. 

Big bad Navy SEAL Steve McGarrett is terrified that if he talks about it, he’ll have another flashback. So he... runs away, like the fucking coward he’s become.

He goes to the fridge and pulls out one of the prepared IV syringes and grabs the bag on the kitchen island but Mike’s hand slams down onto the bag.

“Steve.”

“What,” he grinds out.

“What’s all this?”

“Meds for my IV antibiotic treatment.”

“Like you had after the transplant?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you did those through the outpatient clinic at Tripler…”

“I was. I decided to do it at home.”

“I see. And why’s that?”

He clenches his jaw. Swallows before answering. “Wound on my back hurts when I’m driving and… meds tend to make me nauseous so, I’d rather not… have to drive right after,” he says haltingly.  Pain. Pain his back. Pain in his side. In his chest. He closes his eyes. No. Not again. Please, not again.

_Pain rips through the side of his chest, explodes inside him, burning like fire, stealing his breath._

“You sure that’s all it is?”

_Cold. He feels cold as hot blood pours out of the hole in his side and chest, his thigh, running down his leg_ _, his arm, pooling at his feet_ _._

No. 

Stop it. 

Don’t! 

Don’t think about it. He shakes his head quickly, trying to gather his racing thoughts.

He doesn’t answer Mike, just grabs the bag of IV supplies and walks out of the kitchen, heading out to the dining room, tosses it on the dining table, bracing both hands on it. He knows what he needs to say. The words are stuck in his throat like burrs, like it will physically hurt to say them. Like it’ll make him more vulnerable to admit to feeling it, that saying he can’t shake it off on his own despite the drugs and counselling will seal his fate and slot him in the broken and useless category forever. He’s terrified that this… PTSD he has is _it_ , that it’s the thing that now defines him. He’s terrified that… That whatever he was before doesn’t exist anymore, that the Steve McGarrett from before did die on that plane and that whatever he is now is… this broken, useless _shell_ that keeps on reliving that defining moment in his head, over and over again, seeing those images, feeling those bullets tear through his flesh…

“Steve?”

He’s still leaning on the table, images of the helicopter he can’t get out of his head running on a loop when Mike touches his shoulder.

“I… I can’t…” 

_Breathing hurts_ _,_ _so incredibly much_ _. It’s becoming so hard… he’s… dying. He needs to tell Danny._

“You’re about as freaked out as the first time I met you so clearly something happened since we spoke on the phone. You didn’t show up to your appointment either. What’s going on? Steve? I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

‘ _M_ _gonna die, Danny.’_

“I keep… it keeps… happening,” he whispers.

“What keeps happening? You’re having flashbacks again? Did what happen yesterday trigger flashbacks?”

He nods, screwing his eyes shut, then shakes his head. ‘I’m having one now,’ he doesn’t say. Can’t. 

Yes.

Yes, he’s having flashbacks. Not because of yesterday.

“Okay. You need to sit and get yourself calm and under control before we talk, okay? You’re already on the edge of an anxiety attack, so let’s just take things down a few notches.”

He doesn’t reply. He can barely hear the voice through the roar of the propellers. Danny’s talking to him, but it doesn’t sound like him. His voice is too deep. Wrong.

Dae Won. It’s… Dae Won.

“Shoot him, Danny…”

“Steve. You’re at home. Remember what I taught you. You are at home. Look around you. What can you see?”

He blinks. Table. Wood, chairs, window. The ocean. “The… dining room: table, chairs. Window. Ocean.”

“Good. Now, stay here. Focus on the smells, on the here and now, on where you are _now_. You’re not on that plane. You’re here, in your home. Focus on smells. What can you smell? Deep breath through your nose. Tell me what you can smell.”

 _Focus. Inhale. Stay here. Don’t… Don’t go back there_. Inhale. The smell. Here. The ocean. The ocean and Plumeria. Home. “I… The… Plumeria. The… the ocean. Home…”

“That’s right. You’re home. Focus on those smells of home. Now, what do you feel? Your hands. What are they touching?”

Steve draws in a deep breath, smelling the sea and the flowers, the Plumeria growing by the back door, keeping the scent in his nose. 

 _The pain in his chest…_ No. Under his hands. Wood. It’s wood. “Wood. The… the table.”

“Good. Keep your focus here. Can I put my hand on your arm?”

He swallows. Remembers the technique. Grounding. Sight, smells, touch, sounds. “Yeah.”

There’s a hand on his arm. Warm. Solid. Real. Like the wood under his hands.

“Okay. Like we practiced. Sight. Smell. Touch. Hearing. What can you hear? Here. Listen.”

Water. The waves. Birds. The Honeycreepers nesting in the Plumeria. “Waves. Birds.”

The last of the images in his head fade and he blinks open his eyes, looks up, finds Mike’s eyes.

The therapist is by his side, a hand tight on his arm, his other hand by his on the table, his dark eyes on his, calm, a small smile on his dark, weathered features. He doesn’t look sixty-five, Steve thinks, the thought odd and out of place in his head.

A sharp lance of pain spears through his skull and he sucks in a pained breath, exhales shakily.

“You back?” Mike asks.

“Yeah,” he says thinly, rubbing at his aching head. He sits on one of the dining room chairs, once again burying his head in his hands.

“Water?”

He nods, keeping his face hidden.

Mike comes back with a glass of water, three ice cubes floating in it. He both sees and hears it being placed on the table in front of him and feels a thick towel being draped over his shoulders. He doesn’t know why but the thick, heavy material somehow helps him relax, makes him feel… safe, somehow. He wasn’t even cold but he feels better, warmer with the towel across his back. He doesn’t question it, knows Mike’ll explain.

He lifts his head up, lets his hands drop into his lap. He clears his throat and finds Mike, locks eyes with him.

“Thanks.”

“Feel better?”

“Yeah. I’m… tired.”

“Good. Fatigue is normal after an episode like this. And I can tell you have a headache. You ready to talk about it?”

He sighs and lifts a hand, grabbing the water glass. He sips on it silently, watching as Mike sits on a chair in front of him, waiting for the questions to come, not answering the question. He’s not but he’ll have to.

“So, I’m guessing this wasn’t the first one today.” Mike prompts.

Steve shakes his head. “No. I…” He draws in a long breath and blows it out explosively. “I lost about an hour this morning. Couldn’t…” he pauses, scratches his thumb between his brows, rubs the back of his neck, and tries to gather his thoughts. They seem to want to scatter like terrified mice, like there’s still a reason to be scared somewhere, lurking in the back of his mind. He forces himself to smell the sea, the Plumeria, to stay here, to will the lingering adrenaline to fade from his blood. 

He can feel Mike’s eyes on him, assessing. Waiting him out. “I didn’t… Didn’t even think about grounding. Didn’t even cross my mind. I just… lost it,” he finally says. Grounding is something Mike taught him early on. Something to help with flashbacks, to help him stay in the here and now instead of getting sucked into the memory and he’d completely forgotten about it.

“You know what triggered it?”

“Yeah.” He can’t bring himself to say it. The words are there, stuck in his chest. As long as he doesn’t think about it, doesn’t say the words, he can ignore it, but when he looks into that abyss, it does more than stare back. It feels… This morning it felt like it would swallow him whole. He feels it lurking, just outside his perception, just.. there. Waiting.

 And he thought he’d gotten over it. Right.

“And? Steve?”

“And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee,” he says quietly.

“Wow. A SEAL quoting Nietzsche. I’m impressed,” Mike says dryly. 

He snorts. “Hey, I got a College degree,” he retorts.

“So, You started thinking about the shooting and you found yourself there, I got that part,” Mike says more seriously. “You’re still avoiding the question. What brought it back?”

He shakes his head, slowly at first, but he finds himself suddenly angry, more so by the second. “It’s not the question I’m trying to avoid. It’s another fucking flashback!” he snaps, finding himself abruptly furious, his emotions wildly fluid and volatile. “I almost lost my _life_ that day! I lost the Navy. I lost my liver, and a good fucking portion of my longevity with it! I’m trying to avoid living through it another fucking time so I don’t lose more to it again, or don’t you get that huh?” he shouts, shoving to his feet, the chair overturning  behind him, clattering to the floor.

“I know exactly what you’re trying to do,” Mike tells him with that unflappable calm of his, a calm that irritates the fucking hell out of Steve right now. 

“Which is why I’m trying to help you transition those traumatic events into memories,” Mike finishes. “So they don’t have that disruptive, destructive effect on you anymore, and the only way to do that is to identify what triggers them so we can disarm those triggers. Okay?”

He stands there, panting, staring at Mike and the overturned chair, at the towel that’s now on the floor, at the water glass that somehow got spilled, its content dripping onto the hardwood in a steady plit-plat drip. He’s furious, and he doesn’t really know why. He feels powerless, overwhelmed, discouraged…

All his anger evaporates, simply rushes out of him like the air from a burst balloon. It leaves him in a state of weariness so deep he almost wants to just let go and sit right there on the floor, curl into a ball and sleep.

Mike must see it on his face or in his posture because he calls him out on it.

“You look exhausted. You sleeping?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Nightmares?”

“Not really, not since the meds.”

“You’re still taking them as prescribed?”

He nods. “As much as I hate having to, but they help.” He gives a derisive snort. “Or they did… till today.”

“You ready to talk about what happened today?”

He gives a slow, tired nod. “After the crash, after I found out what Danny did for me… I made a request to the Governor, for Danny to receive a medal for his actions. What he did… It was damned heroic and… I had a hell of a time telling him I was grateful and I don’t think people realise what he did, the courage it took… I wanted… I wanted it recognised.” 

Steve draws in a deep breath and exhales slowly, before going back to the moment, to where it all fell apart, where it might, again. “Mahoe called me this morning. She told me Danny’ll be getting the Presidential medal of Valor for what he did that day,” he says quietly, locking his gaze on the waves he can see crashing on his little stretch of beach. “She also told me I’m the one who’ll present the award to him, next month.”

“And that brought the whole thing right back.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Mike says, calm and quiet. “Look Steve, I know you want to get past this. I know you do. I also know you think your usual coping mechanisms, namely not talking about it, shoving it into a mental strongbox and moving on should work like they have in the past, but they’re just not working this time. I know we’ve been over this but I think it hasn’t sunk in, not really. So, your usual coping mechanisms? I’ll say again: they haven’t been working. This time, it’s different. The trauma you went through caused psychological damage. Despite you being better equipped than most, despite your superior coping ability, you’re suffering from PTSD, and that needs to be dealt with differently. I know that rationally, you know that. But rationale and habit are two different things.”

“So what do I do now?”

“First thing is to accept it. I don’t think you have, not completely.”

“Accept it? Accept what? That I’m damaged? That this… mess I am is what I’ll be from now on? That I’ll never go back to the guy I was before I got shot? That I have to accept my limitations?” he spits, his tone full of anger, but the ire is just to cover the dread and maybe the little  bit of desperation because the image of PTSD he has in his mind is of Graham, that guy, that SEAL who took a tour group hostage on the Missouri, almost seven years ago on one of their first cases. He doesn’t want to end up like that. He doesn’t want to end up a broken, useless shell, doped up on meds, too out of it to function, to know what he’s doing…

“No. You need to fully accept that you can’t deal with this on your own or how you usually deal with traumatic events. Try to see it like this: you’re trying to treat a broken leg like you would a bruise. It’s just not the right way and it won’t work. The bone won’t heal if you don’t set it properly.”

He’s silent for a beat.

“Some fractures don’t heal,” Steve says finally.

“True,” Mike says. “It happens. But I don’t think it’ll be your case. You’re not the type and there’s still work to be done before that determination is to be made, or do you give up that easily?”

Steve takes a few steps away from the window, rights the overturned chair and sits. “I’m just… I’m… tired, Mike. Exhausted. All the damn time. I don’t… I don’t know if I have the strength. I… Maybe I’m just… not strong enough anymore. Not enough to get through this. This guy I was before? I don’t know if he exists anymore. He could get through it,” he whispers. “I… don’t…” he swallows heavily. “I’m… scared… that… maybe… I don’t know I can get through it, that this…this fucking job took _everything_ from me. Even who I am.” he says, eyes filling with tears. He lets his head fall, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

It’s the first time he admits it. Being this scared. Saying he doesn’t know if he can’t get past this.

The sobs die down quickly but the tears keep falling and he can’t stop them for some reason. That alone drags his mood even lower. It’s like all the progress he thought he’d made was just an illusion. “How am I gonna get through this? How can I survive getting shot if it’s to end up like _this_?” he asks Mike.

“The thing is, you already did, and you already are, and this is where we turn it around. But you already got through the hard part. You are through it already.”

It takes a while for Mike’s words to sink in, but they don’t make sense when they do. “What?”

“You are. Through it. You survived.”

He frowns, turns a confused gaze on Mike. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s what the problem is, right there. You did survive. You did make it through. You forget how strong you’ve been through all of this. You _survived_ _,_ ” Mike says pointedly. “You got this far. You’re here. So, you’re not dealing as well as usual psychologically. Big deal. You’re here. You made it through. You survived. You _are_ strong. You did make it,” he repeats. “You need some help, again, big deal. You take pain meds when it hurts and you’re fine with that, and you have a problem taking meds to help treat a chemical imbalance in another organ; your brain. That, my friend, is illogical, and I _know_ you know this.  You _know_ this. So let me repeat it: you are strong. You have been, through all of this. You are here, and you made it and you’re still fighting. Needing help, meds, and feeling down and off and having bad days and having flashbacks and PTSD and struggling does not make you weak. Seeking help, facing it, every day, battling through it, now that’s showing courage and strength of character. And that is something you have not failed at. You are still strong and courageous. You have not changed. This event in your life does not define you, and it did not change who you are. The only easy day _was_ yesterday. So today is harder. But you don’t give up. You persevere, _that_ is who you are.”

Steve listens, chews on his lip and ponders, tries to find fault with Mike’s logic but, as usual, he can’t. So he nods slowly, wiping at his eyes.

“So, what do I do now?”

“Now? Let’s start by right now, today. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay,” he nods, still sniffling through tears.

“First, IV, then food, then sleep, because your mind needs fuel and rest, just as your body does and stress depletes the body’s reserves and depresses the immune system and you can’t afford that. We’ll start fresh in the morning. The exact how will need to be worked out but so long as you have the will, you’ll find the way. Keep to that SEAL motto, Steve. Stick to that mentality and you will get through anything.” 

 

* * *

They change his meds.

He sees Mike more often.

He takes a couple weeks off work, starts by getting the rest his body and mind have been craving since the very beginning.

He relies on his years of discipline and focus and mindset and… he starts to get back to himself.

It’ll take time. More than the five weeks leading to the ceremony but… he’s getting there. He’ll get there. 

Still, when he hands Danny the invitation for his retirement party and the secret award ceremony, a week before the event, he feels a little thrill of excitement.

“You’ll be happy to know that this event requires formal dress, Danny. Suit and tie not optional. I’m sure you’ll be happy about that,” he says, holding on to the top of the envelope as Danny tries to take it from his hand.

Danny smiles. “One time you ask me to wear a tie on this island that’s actually for you.”

“Hey, first time for everything.”

 

* * *

 

 

Steve takes his place behind the podium, clears his throat and smoothes a hand down the front of his uniform. The nervous gestures and corresponding delays do nothing to dislodge the lump in his throat. 

The day is gorgeous, sunny and warm, the breeze blowing in from the ocean sweeping the deck of the USS Missouri and the familiar, historic setting should be comforting. He almost wants to laugh at the thought. It doesn’t make an iota of difference. He could be at the White House and he’d be just as nervous.

This is much harder than he anticipated it to be. He really doesn’t want to be here; as much as he wants to honor Danny’s sacrifice and heroism, he doesn’t want to have to relive those moments in public. He’s not ready. Not yet. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be but he’s the one who wanted this, wanted to honor Danny for what he did, only the plan was to have the Governor, the Attorney General or possibly the President present the award. He never expected Mahoe to kick it back to him to do it and despite all the progress he’s made, a part of him is still terrified he’ll end up having a flashback. The images are still there, just on the edge of his mind.

That’s where he’ll keep them.

It’s too late to back out now anyway and he wants to do this. He does. He willingly doesn’t think how alike this is to stage fright. 

He gives himself another mental shake. He will _not_ back down from this. He’s not a teenager. He’s a fucking Navy SEAL. Retiring, maybe, but still a SEAL.

 _You can to this_. _You can. The only easy day was yesterday._ He inhales deeply and starts to speak. 

“Good afternoon. Thank you all for coming.” He exhales, inhales slowly and closes his eyes for a second before continuing “I can’t really believe I’m retiring. I’ve had a long, distinguished, decorated career. Now... I may not be retiring entirely by choice but it is a chance I’m grateful to have. As you are all aware, the incident that made my retirement necessary nearly took my life. On that day, my life changed it irrevocably.”

He pauses, drawing in another deep breath, willing the images to stay where they’re supposed to; in the past. He tries to tell his racing heart to slow down. He’s fine. He’s okay. 

“However, we are not gathered here today to celebrate the end of that distinguished, decorated career. We are not, contrary to belief, here to celebrate a hopefully long life into retirement. Instead, we are here to honor the person who made all this, my retirement, but most importantly the remainder of my life, possible.”

He pauses and clears his throat, swallowing heavily. He turns and gives Danny a long, meaningful look before turning his attention back to the sheet in front of him.

“On the afternoon of May 25th 2016, Detective Sergeant Daniel Williams, while undercover, performed numerous heroic acts, putting his own life in jeopardy, saving the life of his gravely injured partner, Lieutenant-Commander Steven John McGarrett.

“In the course of their undercover mission, Commander McGarrett suffered numerous and life-threatening gunshot wounds while piloting a Cessna aircraft over the Pacific Ocean. Despite severe damage to the aircraft, dwindling fuel reserves, threats of violence by a now convicted drug trafficker and in spite of having no knowledge of aircraft operation, Detective Williams elected, without regard to his own safety, and against recommendation of Air Traffic Control to that effect, to bring said aircraft to reach land, with the single goal of saving his partner’s life, _my_ life.

“Detective Williams’ actions not only succeeded in bringing me to medical help in time, it also allowed for the undercover operation to be completed and allowed the Drug Enforcement Agency to dismantle a major drug smuggling ring operating in the Pacific region, also putting an end do an epidemic of drug related deaths here in Hawai’i. 

“Detective Sergeant Daniel Williams exhibited exceptional courage, well above and beyond the call of duty, without consideration to his personal safety, and by doing so, prevented the loss of numerous human lives by stopping the influx of deadly drugs into the country, and directly saved a human life, my own.

“Therefore, upon my request and under the authority of the President of the United States, Detective Sergeant Daniel Williams is awarded The Public Safety Officer Medal Of Valor.

Detective Williams, if you would,” he asks, turning to Danny, motioning for him to come forward.

He smiles a little at Danny’s stunned expression but Danny gets to his feet and comes up to the podium, shaking his head a little, a stunned, disbelieving smile on his face .

He turns back to the podium, takes the medal from its case and faces Danny, carefully pinning it to the lapel of his jacket and shakes his hand. Danny moves to hug him but he takes a step back, snaps to attention and gives Danny the most perfect, most respectful salute he can. He sees the flash of understanding in Danny’s eyes, so he knows his partner gets it. Danny’s posture straightens and he returns the salute, a small smile pulling at his lips. Steve lets his arm drop and this time, he doesn’t try to avoid the hug.

“You son of a bitch,” Danny mutters in his ear, his voice a bit rough and maybe a bit watery too. “This is how you make up for not saying thank you, huh?”

“Something like that,” Steve says, smiling crookedly when they part.

Thunderous applause still surrounds them and maybe a couple tears escape his own eyes. He wipes them off discreetly before raising his hand, calling for silence because he isn’t done. He steps up to the mike again and this time, he doesn’t care if his voice sounds a little broken.

“A lot of people say I’m not afraid of much. I even heard someone say I was born without a fear gene. Let me assure you it’s not true.

“Danny once told me fear is a healthy response in us humans, tells us when not to do something. Maybe he’s right. I’m not really sure. I may not be afraid of much and I don’t know if that’s because the Navy trained it out of me as Danny often says, or if it’s because I lost so much through the course of my life that I felt I had nothing left _to_ fear. Being brave is easy when you’re not afraid. Being brave is much harder when you _are_ afraid. And Danny is afraid,” he says, chuckling a little. “I know because he tells me. Loudly. He tells me every single way things can go wrong. He sees it. We all know it.” 

The crowd chuckles and he waits for the quiet to fall again before speaking.

“And yet, he’s still there. He still does it all. He’s still _always_ right there by my side. That,” he says, pointing at his friend, “is the true meaning if courage: courage is acting despite your fear. Courage is acting despite fear,” he repeats” “and for others, without thought for yourself.”

“Danny chose to save my life, by risking his own, by risking his future with his children and he went even further; he literally gave a part of himself so that I could live. And it took almost dying for me to realise how in showing me all of his fears, Danny was really showing me how brave he truly is.” 

He turns to Danny, his eyes shining. “Thank you, Danny, for being the bravest, most dedicated, most generous man I know. In the words of L. Frank Baum:  The true courage is in facing danger when you are afraid, and that kind of courage you have in plenty. Thank you.”

Every single person present on the aft deck of the ship is standing, applause and whistles deafening as Danny engulfs him in a tight hug. 

“Wizard of Oz, babe, Really?” he mutters in his ear. “The cowardly lion?”

“Hey, if the shoe fits...” Steve laughs in response, his smile broad.

“Seriously, babe... I don’t know what to say,” Danny says as they pull apart, eyes dropping to the new medal decorating his lapel.

“Nothing to say. You deserve it, Danny. What you did... That took some serious, serious balls, man. I know I rib you and give you shit, but... it’s just all talk because when it counts, you’re there, without fail. I’m just making sure credit’s given where it’s due. When it happened... I was kind of an ass and...”

“I probably would’ve been an ass too had I been in your shoes. What you went through... wasn’t easy. I wasn’t there when they told you about the liver but.. couldn’t have been an easy thing to hear...”

“Yeah, Still isn’t, some days, but you were there for me, every single day, even when I didn’t deserve you.”

“Hey, friends aren’t just for the good days, Steve, you know that.”

“I know,” Steve answers, eyes distant, looking at the sea and sky.

“You doing okay?” Danny asks, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Steve turns his attention back on his partner, drawing in a deep breath. He can see he concern in Danny’s eyes. Despite how well he’s been doing, he knows his partner is still concerned. One thing he’s tried to do is be honest with Danny about how he’s doing; he’s told him about the bad days, about his fears and of course, his partner took them to heart, started worrying more and more about it, until Steve blew up about it, and they ended up not speaking for a few days, until, as usual, Danny showed up with beer and they'd moved on.

Finding a balance in their friendship since the transplant is still tricky but today marks a new beginning, so he smiles, all teeth and charm. “I’m doing better. C’mon, partner. Let’s have a beer. You’re buying.”

Danny’s eyes widen. “But I’m the one who got the award!” he says, arms spreading wide.

“It’s my retirement party, Danny. I can’t be the one buying,” Steve says, walking off towards the bar. He hides his laugh by walking off as quickly as he can but he can’t contain it when he hears Danny’s indignant squawk behind him.

“But you just... Steven!”

Yeah, he might not be quite there yet, but pretty much everything is on its way back to where it should be in his life. He has a few more scars, both on his body and in his mind but he’ll be all right. He still has his partner by his side and that’s the most important thing.

 

Fin

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew.
> 
> Again, wow.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me through this adventure, and thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> So there you have it.
> 
> Our Danno is so brave. He's badass. He complains a lot, mainly when he's scared, but man, he's got the balls of steel too, which is why I will make sure he gets his due in the next chapter.


End file.
